Shell Game
by The Real Muse
Summary: Sequel to "To Soar Like A Hawk." Stringfellow Hawke and Archangel are captured by an old enemy, who reintroduces them to a few surprising friends. Continued on my home website
1. Default Chapter

Shell Game  
  
CindyR  
  
What has gone before..  
  
This story is a sequel to "To Soar Like A Hawk," wherein Saint John Hawk, returned from a Laotian prisoner of war camp, reveals to the New Airwolf team that his brother, Stringfellow, did not in fact die when an unknown bomber blew up the helicopter carrying their mentor, Dominic Santini. Stringfellow joins the team on a mission to liberate Michael Coldsmith- Briggs - code named Archangel - from a Mexican fortress. Briggs regains his position with the division of American Intelligence called 'the Firm' or 'the Company,' depending upon which Coast your headquarters is located.  
  
The regular Airwolf team, however, continued to consist of Saint John Hawk, Major Michael 'Mike' Rivers, and Dominic Santini's niece Jo, now owner of Santini Aviation. Jason Locke continued to be the team's Control with the Intelligence agency, with Stringfellow Hawk available should he be needed, while continuing to recover from wounds incurred in the helicopter explosion.  
  
Our story picks up there.  
  
Enjoy!  
  
Shell Game  
  
Doubt is a pain too lonely to know that faith is his twin brother. -- Kahlil Gibran  
  
195---  
  
Dominic Santini settled back with a sigh, adjusting his three-year-old daughter on his lap so he could better see his wristwatch. Two-thirty and still no sign of Lyla. His wife's curt, "I'm going out with my friends tonight," still rang in his ears; she'd left the house at eight and hadn't returned.  
  
"Looks like it's just you an' me again tonight, Sally Anne," he murmured to the sleeping child, unconsciously hugging her a bit closer to his barrel chest. "Like always." The little girl's dark curls tickled his chin, and he chuckled. Who would have believed that a hard-bitten ex-Navy pilot like him could've helped produce something so beautiful, so fragile as this child. Sally Anne Santini was his pride and joy; somehow, so long as he was holding his daughter close, his wife's frequent absences didn't hurt so much. It was only when he and Lyla were alone that suspicion gave way to that lonely ache deep inside his heart that he strove so hard to bury.  
  
Determinedly he turned back to the newspaper spread across his right knee. The words came into focus then blurred away again as his attention wandered back to the front door. Had he heard...? It came again, the scrape of a key being fitted in the lock. There was a click and the door swung silently back, allowing Lyla Santini to enter her home. She peeked cautiously inside, lovely violet-blue eyes widening when she realized there was still a light on. She caught sight of her husband in the armchair just inside the front room, and pasted on a patently false smile.  
  
"Hello, Dom!" she greeted him cheerfully. "Waiting up for me?"  
  
There was accusation beneath the benign question, which Santini ignored. "Was worried about you," he returned easily. "Have a good time out with the ... girls?"  
  
If Lyla noticed the hesitation, she made no mention. "I had a wonderful time!" She took two steps, a graceful little dance. "We may go out again tomorrow, too!"  
  
Dominic gained his feet slowly, careful to not wake the child. He deposited her on the upholstered sofa against the wall before turning to face his wife. "Don't you think you ought to stay in tomorrow?" he suggested, spreading both hands in a curiously pleading gesture. "You know, spend a little time with Sally Anne?"  
  
Lyla's beautiful face hardened, her delicate features becoming stone. "Are you trying to order me around?" she snapped, placing her hands on her hips. "Tell me I can't go out with my friends when I want to?"  
  
He approached her, nostrils wrinkling when he caught an odor from her clothes -- something beyond the cigarettes she seemed to live on and the bourbon that comprised a major portion of her diet. It was a synthetic odor, sweeter than the tropical flowers which perfumed the air around the windows. Dominic recognized it at once. Aqua-Velva. Aftershave. And not his brand, either. His stomach twisted although he kept his tone carefully neutral. "You'll wake Sally Anne," he admonished with a finger to his lips.  
  
She glanced scornfully at the sleeping child then tossed her head, throwing long golden hair over her shoulder. "As if Sally Anne is what you really care about. Take my word for it, Dominic." She shook her finger in his face. "Some day your bossing me around will end. Some day you'll be sorry you didn't give me my freedom!"  
  
"But, Lyla...." Dom broke off when Sally Anne stirred and opened her eyes, a happy smile lighting her little face at sight of Lyla.  
  
"Mommy!"  
  
Lyla glared another moment at Santini, then swooped down on the girl, gathering her close. "Mommy's here, darling. Did your nasty, inconsiderate daddy wake you?"  
  
The crooning voice mingled with that pervasive aroma of Aqua-Velva, overloading Dom's senses. The pretty little cottage with its comfortable living room tunneled down until all he could see was the child that filled his heart, and the wife who was determined to break it.  
  
*** 


	2. Chapter 2

He was reaching for the bath towel, steam still rising from his damp body when the sound came: it was an engine, a helicopter, coming in low. To an experienced pilot, the cadence of the rotors identified it even from the distance as a Jetranger -- a new Jetranger at that.  
  
Quickly he dried off and stepped into the jeans and Army tank top he'd laid out earlier, making no motion to wipe off the fogged medicine cabinet mirror as he dressed. He didn't use the mirror much except when he shaved, and even then he was very careful not to look into his own eyes. Very few people did if they could avoid it.  
  
He snagged a handtowel from the rack and ran it through his hair. It was getting long again, an inch only but actually shaggy compared to the cropped look he usually sported. Still rubbing the gold-brown strands vigorously, he made his way to the kitchen, sniffing appreciatively at the fragrant aroma of fresh perked coffee. He secured a cup from the impeccably arranged cupboard and helped himself to the pot on the stove, nearly tripping over the prone form of a hound dog lying in the path between kitchenette and living room. "I don't want to do this, Tet," he told the dog solemnly, his first words to the animal in nearly two weeks. Tet wagged his tail once lethargically and went back to sleep.  
  
He was tying a pair of battered sneakers when a clatter outside the door announced the presence of his visitor, and for a single unguarded moment, joy lit his face followed immediately by grief-stricken remembrance. "It's not Dom," he whispered to himself, swallowing hard. He stiffened, shoulders coming deliberately back and chin up, a stoic facade shuttering dark blue eyes. Then the door opened and a tall, rugged looking man stood silhouetted there, light shining through his short bronze hair like a halo. "Hey! String!"  
  
"I'm right here," Stringfellow Hawke chided mildly, the welcome peeking through the mask genuine. "You don't have to yell, Saint John."  
  
Saint John Hawke blinked several times to adjust his vision from the bright glare of the outdoors to the gently diffused illumination permeating the sheer curtains, his focus centering on the slender figure on the couch. "I usually have to hunt you down on the lake or in the woods. What happened, get your chores done early?"  
  
"As a matter of fact," Stringfellow replied, "I did. Had to stock up some wood for the fireplace." He indicated the large stone hearth that dominated most of one wall. It was cold now, of course, even the ashes and embers having been meticulously swept up.  
  
Saint John scanned the neat living quarters; there was not a speck of dust to be seen anywhere, the expensive paintings on the walls hanging millimetrically precise. "You must have been up pretty early then. There's enough logs in that woodpile outside to take you through the next ice age." He removed the leather gloves he wore, tossing them onto the dining table, and moved closer to one particularly brilliant colored oil behind the door; it showed a beautiful woman holding an infant -- a favorite of his since he was a child himself. "Working off some nervous energy, eh?" he asked over his shoulder.  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about."  
  
Abandoning his inspection of the Rembrandt, Saint John turned until he could see his younger brother, who had not moved. "This is the first time you've been back to Van Nuys Airport since Dominic was killed. If it was me, I'd be a bit stressed about the whole thing."  
  
"I'm not stressed about anything," Stringfellow snapped back, deliberately fixing his attention on his cup.  
  
Saint John scratched his neck, then shrugged, unembarrassed by the rebuff. It was rare for the phlegmatic man to be embarrassed about anything, nor did he avert his gaze from his open scrutiny. "You're starting to get some weight back, I think. Six weeks in a medical clinic left you looking pretty scrawny."  
  
"Listen to who's talking," the younger man retorted waspishly. "What did you weigh when you came back from Burma?"  
  
There was no denying that Saint John weighed more now than he had immediately after his liberation from Southeast Asia, with powerful muscles in his shoulders and arms. But even now, three months after the man's return, there was a leanness to the big-boned frame, the hungry look of a body still recovering from starvation and misuse. Fifteen years as a prisoner of war had indelibly left their marks, etching lines in the still- youthful face and thinning the generous mouth. And there was a suppressed tension as well, a wariness that never completely relaxed, mirrored perfectly in Stringfellow Hawke's slighter form. In tacit acknowledgment of this, Saint John patted his flat stomach. "So we're both doing pretty well. Of course, we carnivores are going to put weight back on faster than you vegetarians."  
  
The last word was an affable sneer and provoked a grunt but nothing more. "You're early," Stringfellow said, changing the subject with all the tact of a sledgehammer.  
  
The elder brother ran a hand through his hair; short cropped, it already lay stylishly straight back. "I'm on my way back from Las Vegas. Had to deliver a charter to Circus-Circus. Honeymooners." He grimaced. "The way they were acting, I was half afraid I'd be met by the vice squad instead of a bellhop."  
  
"They're always the worst," the younger man agreed. "I'd almost rather have someone holding a gun to my head than have to listen to honeymooners go on."  
  
"Jo thought they were cute."  
  
"You should have made Jo transport them." Finished with his laces, Stringfellow indicated the kitchen with a thumb. "Coffee's fresh."  
  
"Thanks." Unzipping his brown bomber jacket, Saint John made his way to the stove, stepping lightly over the hound, who once more deigned to wag his tail before relapsing into an apparent coma. "This dog ever move?"  
  
"Only when he hunts."  
  
The bigger man secured a cup from the cabinet and helped himself to the pot, a disdainful snort clear in the room. "This thing hunts? I'm surprised he's got the energy to make it from here to the woods."  
  
"You makin' fun of my dog?" Stringfellow demanded mildly. "He takes care of himself just fine."  
  
"Yeah, I'll bet." Chuckling to himself, Saint John retraced his steps into the living room and sank down onto the couch next to his brother, cradling his cup in large hands. "Good coffee. I can use this."  
  
Stringfellow took a sip of his own brew, examining the other surreptitiously over the rim of his cup. Saint John did look tired. There were dark circles under the bright blue-gray eyes, and his thin lips were drawn into a line that bespoke fatigue. "Rough night? Or early honeymooner call?"  
  
"Both."  
  
"You don't look like you enjoyed that rough night," Stringfellow prodded gently. "Anything you want to talk about?"  
  
The older man hesitated, burying his nose in his cup for a long moment. "Not much to talk about. Couple of bad dreams, that's all." He waved genially, dredging up a smile for his brother although the gray eyes remained shadowed. "That's the last time I let Mike talk me into eating a triple cheese pizza with four toppings before I turn in."  
  
If his intention was to throw the younger man off the track, he failed. Stringfellow continued to regard him solemnly, enough understanding in his own eyes to make Saint John squirm. "You dreamed about being There?"  
  
"There?" Saint John smiled wider, this time with a spark of ironic amusement. "Do you realize how often you refer to Southeast Asia as There? I can practically hear the capital letter."  
  
Stringfellow shrugged and looked away. He swirled dark liquid in the bottom of his cup, staring at it as though it were incredibly important. "I don't blame you," he began nonchalantly. "I don't like to talk about it, either."  
  
"There's nothing to talk about." Irony became anger, and he stopped, dropping a hand onto his brother's shoulder. "Look, String, sometimes I dream about being back in Asia, but it's not that bad and it's not that often. I had fifteen years to adjust to being there -- that's enough time to work out most of the garbage in here." He tapped his own temple. "The same amount of time you had." He hesitated again, squeezing the sinewy shoulder he still gripped. "How bad do the dreams take you?" There was no answer save a tightening of the younger man's smooth chin; Saint John laughed shortly. "And isn't it a little early to be getting this heavy? Besides, I'm having more trouble acclimating to the United States than I did in Laos." He shuddered dramatically. "Farm work was a whole lot easier to deal with than buying my own supplies. One-twenty-five for gasoline? Wow."  
  
The words were deliberately flippant but carried some kernel of truth if not entirely. No one recovered from what Saint John Hawke had undergone without scarring that would take a long time to heal if it ever did, but the message was clear. I'm all right; don't worry. Stringfellow's gaze softened, the impassive mask slipping again to allow deep affection to seep through. "Long as you are back, I guess we can both settle."  
  
The unfeigned sentiment brought a returning warmth to Saint John's long- jawed face. "I'm most definitely back, little brother. Don't you forget it." He swallowed the rest of his coffee in two gulps and handed the cup across. "Ready to go?"  
  
"Yeah." Stringfellow took both cups, carefully rinsed them in the sink and set them aside, then slipped on a white sweater over his tank top, letting it fall over the top of his belted jeans. He snatched up a leather flight jacket then followed his brother down the short path to the water. He moved gracelessly, limping heavily on his left ankle, that and other aches the legacy of an explosion that had claimed far more than his health three long months ago.  
  
"Damp this morning," Saint John ventured, watching as the younger man slipped his arms into the jacket with as little movement as possible. He rubbed his own back ruefully, bending to stretch the vertebrae. "Or are we just getting old?"  
  
"Speak for yourself." String stopped, a tiny smile quirking one lip. "You should have heard Dom go on about that. Talking about his age was like touching a match to a gasoline can."  
  
"Can't imagine a couple'a extra years slowing him down any," the other replied.  
  
"It didn't."  
  
The red, white and blue Jetranger sat on the sturdy dock that had existed in one form or another since the time of their great-grandfather. Saint John climbed into the pilot's seat, beginning the short procedure to engine start-up, while Stringfellow sat with his hands tightly clasped in his lap, gaze focused on the thick woods which bordered the lake, then shifting to the snug cabin just visible through the trees. So engrossed was he that he started when Saint John spoke.  
  
"Sure you want to go?"  
  
"Of course." He cast a single glance at his brother's knowing face, conceding the lie for what it was. "No choice," he relented grimly a moment later.  
  
"So tell me then," Saint John pursued, nodding when rotor speed hit proper rpm for takeoff, "why did you call? You haven't been back to the airfield since Dominic died. Why now?"  
  
"Got an appointment," Hawke returned laconically, relenting before the other's questioning look, "With Michael. One of his people radioed last night and arranged a meet." He scowled. "Can't imagine why he didn't choose a better place for it, though."  
  
The older pilot skimmed their craft across crystal waters briefly before increasing their altitude and choosing a direction opposite that of the still ascending sun. "It's an Airwolf mission?"  
  
String glanced a last time back at his home before turning forward in the direction of their flight. "I doubt it. They'd have called Locke. Didn't you and Rivers just take the Lady on a mission into South America?"  
  
"A short mission," the other replied, leveling the ship off once they'd reached a comfortable height. "All we had to do was pick up one of Newman's agents and bring them in."  
  
"That wasn't all," the too-perceptive younger man guessed, studying his face.  
  
Saint John gave a short bark of laughter. "I see the Company's been keeping you informed. Let's just say El Presidente didn't take too kindly to losing his right hand man to the imperialist Americans. Some of his ground troops were using armor piercing shells."  
  
"Much damage to the Lady?"  
  
"ADF pod no longer deploys or retracts; it's stuck somewhere in between. We lost some of the interior wiring, a couple of sensor modules. No humans were hurt, either," he added reprovingly, earning a bland look. "It's going to cost us a couple of days repair time but I don't see anything wrong with Airwolf that some sweat won't cure." He guided the helicopter around a barely visible flock of birds, who honked loudly and scattered. "You could give me a little help, you know. Tracing those circuits can be a real pain."  
  
Stringfellow determinedly kept his eyes on the breathtakingly beautiful mountains passing below, the browns and greens dappled occasionally with blue. "Maybe later. After I find out what Archangel wants."  
  
Had he been watching, Stringfellow Hawke might have been surprised by the expression of dislike and open suspicion that crossed his brother's face at mention of the name. "Archangel again. I didn't think you were still working for that guy now that he doesn't have a hold on you anymore."  
  
The emotion in the older man's voice penetrated the cocoon of studied distraction in which Stringfellow had wrapped himself. He glanced up, a puzzled frown bisecting his light brows. "You never did like Michael. Why?"  
  
The blunt question was ignored for a moment. Then Saint John made a throwaway gesture with his left hand, saying as if it explained the matter, "I knew him back in 'Nam."  
  
"But...."  
  
"I knew of him in 'Nam," the other amended quickly. "We never met." The leather seat creaked as he turned then, meeting the questioning blue eyes flatly. "You weren't involved with the intelligence community when you first went over there -- you were young enough for me to make sure of that. But during the early days of my second tour, my unit had a few long- distance brushes with a mysterious agent named Archangel, who sat all high and safe in Saigon and wrote out orders." He looked away again, jaw jutting slightly. "A lot of good men lost their lives on his word without ever knowing why -- it was all too hush-hush for explanations. There were a few other things I'd rather not dredge up."  
  
"It was war," Stringfellow Hawke offered softly, lashes coming down to veil eyes that had seen far too much. "The intelligence community wasn't the only ones who had orders to follow -- orders we didn't like. I'm ... sure Michael only did what he had to do. Besides," he added, more insult than statement, "you work for that guy, Locke. Hasn't he been with the DNS as far back as 'Nam?"  
  
"Birds of a feather, eh?" the other volleyed smoothly. The expression on his brother's face rejected the comparison without a word, and Saint John made a throw-away gesture with his left hand. "I'll admit I didn't trust Jason either at first, but I do now. He proved himself over and over."  
  
"Don't know him," the other grumbled, rubbing his arm. "Or that Rivers guy, except in passing. At least Michael never lied to me about you."  
  
"That you know of."  
  
Blue eyes flashed briefly, then the younger Hawke's expression closed, finality roughening his baritone voice. "I told him I'd come if I was needed. Michael's message said Code Celestial -- American lives at risk. I don't know anything beyond that."  
  
After that, silence reigned most of the one hour flight, neither brother the gregarious type -- not any more. Saint John did take the time to mention some of the new things he was discovering in the world -- fifteen years as a prisoner of war tended to leave a man a little behind.  
  
"... called a Nintendo," he was finishing as they landed at Van Nuys Airport. "I swear, String, if I didn't know better I'd think it was almost the real thing. Especially on the computer monitor setup Mike has."  
  
Stringfellow unsnapped his harness and climbed out of the helicopter, yelling to be heard over the engines. "The world of microchips. People don't need a real life anymore."  
  
"We didn't have all those gadgets when you and I were learning to fly combat," Saint John retorted, also disembarking. "Maybe for the better. There's Jo."  
  
The woman he indicated was petite and pretty, blonde hair bobbing on the shoulders of her greasy coverall. She'd been standing by the hangar when the chopper touched down, and now skipped lightly across the tarmac toward them, greeting Stringfellow Hawke by tossing her arms around his neck and kissing his cheek before he could object. "It's about time you showed up here," she scolded, stepping away. "We've been wondering when you were going to pay us a visit."  
  
"I'm ... not exactly here on a visit," String said, glancing uncomfortably around. The place was little changed from the last time he was here -- a Bell occupied its usual position to the left, a biplane was in the hangar. There were only two major differences: there was a faint scorched mark where Dom's old Jetranger had sat, and Dominic Santini himself was not there to greet him. He shivered, hiding the reaction by stuffing his hands into his pockets. "I have to go into town."  
  
"Oh." Jo Santini, Dominic's niece, looked disappointed at the news. "I was hoping you'd decided to keep your promise and teach Saint John, Mike and me the type of aerial photography you and Uncle Dom used to do for the movies. Mike knows a lot about aerial reconnaissance, but intelligence work and the kind of angles and shots producers want are two different things."  
  
"Someday, Jo," he told her gently, looking away but not soon enough to prevent the escape of the silent plea for her to drop the subject.  
  
She opened her mouth ready to argue, but Saint John, accurately reading his brother as he'd always had the ability to do, tapped the woman on the shoulder, breaking her train of thought. "Where's Mike?" he asked, gesturing String away from the still whirling chopper blades with a hand in the small of his back.  
  
She hesitated as though debating finishing her conversation with String first, then jerked a thumb at the hangar. "Engine keeps stalling on Dom's old Steerman. Slightest bank and...." She snapped her fingers. "It almost took me down last yesterday. Mike thinks he knows what's causing it."  
  
As though on cue a man emerged from the hangar and ambled toward them. Mike -- Air Force Major Michael G. Rivers -- was a handsome, round featured man in his thirties, with longish, wavy blond hair and light blue eyes that perpetually sparkled with mischief. His pleasant face was creased thoughtfully now as he approached, his scowl directed at the engine part he held in one hand. "Hey, Jo, I was right. There's something wrong with that auxiliary fuel pump Santini designed to augment the gravity feed during stunts."  
  
"That's not possible," Saint John told him, staring at the greasy hunk of metal with annoyance. "I rebuilt that unit myself two weeks ago. Most of those parts are brand new."  
  
Rivers tossed it lightly in the elder Hawke's direction; Saint John caught it automatically then grimaced at the engine oil that dripped through his fingers. "Either you installed a lemon or something is causing unusual wear. I'm going to have to trace the system back to find out what. I'd appreciate a little help, too." That said, he nodded amiably at Stringfellow, who was watching him warily. "Decided to come down off of Olympus and join us mere mortals?" He waved at Saint John, who was still staring at the greasy fuel pump with distaste. "We can obviously use the help. The Sikorsky needs a maintenance breakdown, and Airwolf has a few holes that need patched, too."  
  
"I was hoping he was going to show us the aerial photography stuff," Jo interjected brightly. "I'd love to work on movies!"  
  
Mike pursed his lips in a whistle. "Stars and starlets ..."  
  
"... action and adventure," Saint John added, shoving the fuel pump back at Rivers while continuing to glare at his grimy hand.  
  
"... money and paid bills," Jo finished wistfully.  
  
That last got the younger Hawke's attention. "You're having trouble with the bills?" he asked, surreptitiously shifting his weight onto his undamaged right leg. "If you need money, just tap into my account. This place is still in my name, isn't it?"  
  
"I can handle it," Jo returned irritably. She brushed a strand of golden hair off her cheek, leaving behind a greasy smear on her makeup. Her smile, however, was apologetic. "I'm going to make this concern pay on its own merits if it's the last thing I do. Besides, we're all drawing a salary from the Company for flying Airwolf missions. That'll keep us going for quite awhile."  
  
Mike dropped the fuel pump to his side, holding it well away from his short- sleeved, loose green shirt. "You missed a bet there, buddy," he told Stringfellow amiably. "You could have probably hit Archangel up for a salary, too, back when you and Santini were holding Airwolf hostage."  
  
The younger Hawke shrugged dismissively, eyes drifting instinctively to his brother's face before dropping away. "We had a deal. Archangel kept his part, I had to keep mine."  
  
Rivers wiggled his eyebrows. "Deals are made to be renegotiated, buddy- boy. Isn't that what they say in the movies?"  
  
"Not any movie I ever saw," Saint John Hawke protested, leaning casually on Mike's shoulder. He tipped his head quizzically until he could see his partner's face. "Which one is that from?"  
  
"Prehistoric Cave Women from the Planet Hooter," Rivers quoted impishly. "Want to hear about it?"  
  
"No." Jo rolled her eyes, a tiny chuckle escaping her pink lips. "And I don't believe you anyway."  
  
"I do." Saint John snagged a rag from Mike's belt and used it to wipe his palm clean. "And it scares the heck out of me."  
  
Mike jabbed him playfully in the ribs, grinning at the grunt this produced. "Watch it, pal; we're talking about art, here." He returned his attention to Stringfellow Hawke, who was watching the friendly interchange between the Air Force pilot and his brother with an oddly remote expression. "So, if you're not here to work, why'd you come? I'd wager my hard earned salary it's not a social call."  
  
Stringfellow cast one last involuntary glance at the scorched mark on the tarmac before purposely turning his back. "No. Business. In town."  
  
"Company business?" Mike asked, regarding him with interest.  
  
Dark blue eyes narrowed. "My business."  
  
An answering spark of temper flared in the other man's lighter blue eyes. "So get on with your business," he retorted hotly, shifting his weight forward onto his toes. "Who needs you, anyway?"  
  
Stringfellow deliberately removed his amber sunglasses and slipped them into his pocket. Saint John, recognizing the signs in his companions, stepped between the two before mayhem could develop. "Calm down, both of you," he ordered in the tones of one who's gone through this before. "We're supposed to be on the same team, remember?"  
  
"Not my team," Rivers retorted brusquely, flipping a blond curl out of his eyes. Stringfellow said nothing although his lips tightened dangerously. After a moment, Mike turned away. "I'll see if we can get another pump delivered. We can modify it this afternoon." He strode off, without looking over his shoulder.  
  
Stringfellow's glare bored into the retreating back. He replaced the sunglasses on his nose, looking down when Jo touched his arm. "Why don't you and Mike like each other?" she asked with the barest hint of censure. "You've only met a couple of times -- not long enough to develop an abiding animosity."  
  
"Once is enough," he returned shortly, sticking his hands obstinately back into his pockets.  
  
Saint John chuckled. "Maybe they're too much alike, Jo. Put two stubborn hotshots together and what do you expect?" He dug into his jacket and extracted a set of keys, tossing them at his brother, who caught them in one hand. "Take my Jimmy. It's parked around front."  
  
"Thanks." Stringfellow limped off in the direction indicated, his back ramrod straight, his jaw set.  
  
Saint John watched him go with fond exasperation. "I wish I knew what to do with him. String was always pretty serious, but these days he's positively grim." He glanced down at Jo, who was also watching the disappearing younger Hawke. "Was he this bad before Dom died?"  
  
She bit her lip. "Most of the time. I don't remember him smiling all that much even before you two went away to Viet Nam. After you left he just got worse. And when he came back and you didn't...." She shook her head deliberately, then humor lightened her own serious expression. "Now on top of everything, I think he's jealous."  
  
"Jealous?" Saint John regarded her quizzically. "Jealous of what?"  
  
She dimpled. "You and Mike! The way the two of you get along, heckle each other, act like best friends. Next time you're all together, watch his face when you and Mike are joking around. I think he's afraid Mike's going to take his place with you, and he doesn't want to admit it."  
  
The tall, bronze-haired pilot blinked at her, then looked up again at the sound of an automobile engine turning over. A red Jimmy appeared from around the corner of the hangar, the slim figure of Stringfellow Hawke identifiable in the driver's seat. It turned onto the main access road and accelerated towards the airport exit. "Mike may be my best friend," Saint John said evenly although with a thoughtful expression. "But String's my kid brother. Nothing's ever going to change that."  
  
The petite woman slipped her arm through his and they strolled back toward the Santini Air hangar. "You know, you're not quite as bad, but you do the same thing he does -- set up those walls no one's allowed to cross except each other. Remember how long it took Uncle Dom to win him over after the accident?"  
  
Hawke sighed. "A lot longer than it took him with me. String was really shaken when Mom and Dad died -- we both were. But String was just a kid. I had four, almost five years on him and could handle it better. At least, I could thanks to Dom."  
  
"I miss him too." Jo laid her head briefly against his shoulder. "He was always more of a father to me than Tony ever was. Not that Tony isn't trying to make up for it now that his cancer is in remission. I got another letter from him this morning."  
  
If Saint John had heard the last he made no mention of it. His focus was still on his retreating brother. "Maybe you're right. If we can get String to help out here a bit, we might be able to integrate him into the team before he realizes what's happening."  
  
"Do you think he ever will come back here?" Jo asked wistfully. "He might be a grouch, but I kind of like having him around." She giggled. "Especially with you here! Put the two of you together and it used to be like watching a Marx Brothers routine!"  
  
"That was a long time ago," the older brother replied, giving her a squeeze. "I don't know about now. With that temper of his, he and that hot- head, Rivers, would be clashing constantly. I could end up playing United Nations ... with a baseball bat."  
  
"Uncle Dom would've known how to handle it. He was always able to bring out the best in String." Jo sighed, taking the towel from her old friend and scrubbing at a large spot of grease on her coverall. "He even smiled sometimes. I wish Uncle Dom were here right now."  
  
"So do I," Saint John Hawke replied sadly. "So does String. That's the problem."  
  
*** 


	3. Chapter 3

Ling-Ling's sat on the outskirts of Van Nuys, on a desert and little used road leading out of town. Built in the style of the bars common in Bangkok and Saigon, and stocked with Vietnamese and Thai dancers and barmaids, it had originally been a popular watering hole with veterans, a place to gather and reminisce about the war. Clientele dwindled over the years as the war was forgotten, the owner using more sleazy tactics to attract customers. Today, two decades after its inception, Ling-Ling's was a shabby, square stone building in an otherwise barren area, known for its topless and occasionally bottomless dancers, watered down drinks and barely concealed front for every vice society had tried in vain to suppress for millennia.  
  
Stringfellow Hawke wandered through the front door, scanning the interior at a glance. There were less than a dozen patrons this early, most of them scattered at various tables around the small stage, staring blearily up at an oriental girl, who gyrated listlessly to the strains of an old Rolling Stones album. He headed for a table against the wall, ignoring the knowing look of the muscular bouncer and glaring down a posturing male who was watching Hawke rather than the dancer. He turned his chair to the wall and seated himself, pulling on a bland mask after a single spark of disapproval. He hadn't enjoyed the bargirl scene even when he was in Viet Nam, nor the thinly veiled prostitution that generated the real money in the business.  
  
A bored looking waitress in pink hotpants and halter, sidled to his table. "What d'ya want?" she asked as though deigning to do him a favor.  
  
"Ginger ale."  
  
"Big spender," she mumbled, turning away.  
  
Hawke dismissed her as soon as she was gone, turning his attention back to the patrons. He didn't recognize any of them as the Firm's personnel although he couldn't possibly know all of the hundreds of operatives out of the Los Angeles office called Knightsbridge. From the looks, they weren't interested in anything more than the dancer anyway. He spared her a glance, wondering if she could be an agent herself, but the dreamy eyes slid past his without acknowledgment, and the purple marks on her arm told their own stories.  
  
Hawke looked up as the dissipate looking man who'd eyed him earlier, got up from the bar and strolled his way. The man -- tall and thin, with a pencil mustache -- stopped in front of the table and offered Hawke a smile. "Here by yourself?" the man asked in a deep bass.  
  
Hawke regarded him stonily, dark blue eyes narrow. "Go away."  
  
The man's smile slipped a fraction, then returned. "Hey! I'm only trying to be friendly." No answer. The young pilot continued to stare, only a barely perceptible tightening in his muscles conveying his warning. After a moment, the stranger shrugged. "If you change your mind, I'll be at the bar."  
  
"Fat chance," Hawke muttered.  
  
"Why, Stringfellow, I do believe you have an admirer." Hawke started, a slow flush touching his cheeks at that droll statement. Unnoticed by the pilot during the borderline confrontation, a handsome blond man in his late forties had sauntered in, stopping behind and to the side of the stranger. He was of medium height -- six feet or so -- and well-built, the left lens of his glasses blackened. He wore a suit so pristine white as to glow under the influence of the ultraviolet bulb lighting the stage, and the silver head of his walking stick reflecting a prism of color in all directions. All in all the man looked almost supernatural against the seedy surroundings. He stood watching the effeminate patron retreat, chuckling to himself. "What's the matter, isn't he your type?"  
  
Hawke's eyes flashed, his hard features decidedly unamused -- something which brought another round of laughter to the white suited man. "Git off it, Michael," Hawke snapped, shoving over a chair with his foot. "Let's get down to business so we can get out of this sewer."  
  
Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III, code named Archangel, first used his handkerchief to wipe off the chair, then turned it until his back too was protected by the wall before seating himself. He smiled amiably at the returning waitress, refused a drink, and directed his attention to the stage where the dancer was fumbling with her top. When the waitress had departed with Hawke's money, he turned back to the pilot. "Not your type of entertainment?" he began by way of conversation.  
  
"It's a sewer," the younger man repeated, keeping his attention focussed on his companion. "It wasn't always but it is now." He looked beyond the white-suited man to the door. "I hope you didn't bring one of your assistants here. This isn't any place for a lady."  
  
"In deference to the occasion," the older man returned dryly, "I drove myself."  
  
Hawke snorted, looking his companion's attire up and down. "Yeah. You really blend with the crowd now, Michael."  
  
"Only when absolutely necessary." He glanced again at the stage, stroking his neat pale mustache reflectively. "Granted this place is not particularly to my taste, either, although one may ever find some appreciation in the feminine form." Archangel leaned the walking stick against his chair and slid his hand into his breast pocket, pulling out a photograph, which he passed across. "Do you recognize this man?"  
  
Hawke accepted the photo, turning it slightly so he could see it better by the low light. His brows furrowed. "That's Bishop Morris. He was a chopper pilot in 'Nam. He flew cover for me a couple'a times when I was doing medevac, then transferred out to Colonel Curtis' team."  
  
Archangel nodded as if he'd known this all along ... which, of course, he had. "What kind of man was he? A friend?"  
  
Hawke passed the picture back. "We worked together a couple of times, that's all. Saint John knew him better than I did; they were teamed for about a year before I got over there. He didn't like him -- said he was in the black market and told me to steer clear."  
  
"Did you see any evidence of that?" Archangel pursued, his attitude more that of an interested friend than the informal interrogation this was.  
  
The younger man lifted one shoulder minusculely. "I didn't care. As long as he gave us what cover we needed, his personal life wasn't any of my business. Why aren't you asking Saint John about him instead of me?"  
  
The photograph shone anemically in the dim illumination, and Coldsmith- Briggs touched it with absent fingers, his attitude still friendly, not pushing. "My intelligence was obviously sketchy. I knew you'd worked with Morris at some point, but there was no record that your brother and Morris were teamed as well. Naturally, I'll have to ring him in on this, too."  
  
"In on what?" Hawke asked suspiciously, shifting to stretch his damaged ankle.  
  
Archangel watched the maneuver with sympathy. "I know how you feel," he said, rubbing his own game knee wryly. "Mine didn't stop aching for over a year. As it is, it lets me know if I've been still for too long."  
  
"I'm all right," the younger man returned with a dismissive wave. "What about Bishop?"  
  
Archangel opened his mouth then shut it, donning a smile when the nearly nude dancer pranced to their table during her round for tips. "Hi," the girl said, staring at him with interest penetrating the vagueness. "Nice suit."  
  
"Thank you, my dear." Michael helped himself to the change the waitress had left Hawke, extracting a five dollar bill and offering it to the girl. She opened the triangle of cloth covering her groin, inviting him to insert the bill. Instead, he clasped her wrist and pressed it into her palm. "This is good enough," he said gallantly if with some pity. She looked surprised but took the money and departed, casting Hawke not even a look.  
  
"Girl will be dead before she's thirty," Michael murmured at her departing back.  
  
"I doubt she'll make twenty-one at the rate she's going," Hawke returned, still watching his companion. "What about Bishop?"  
  
Archangel took a deep breath. "Bishop Morris became involved with a terrorist group known as Muhallah through mercenary contacts in the middle east. He's been coordinating runs against NATO weapons depots in Europe for the last six months." He stroked his blond mustache again, ruffling it slightly over his lip. "We know for a fact that he was personally present during that raid in Munich last month."  
  
Surprise brought Hawke up straight. "The one in the newspapers? Twelve American soldiers died in that raid."  
  
The agent nodded. "He took nearly a ton of weapons that time. We still haven't managed to discover who is bankrolling his organization."  
  
"What does that have to do with me?" Hawke asked, eyes narrowing. "Or Saint John?"  
  
Michael leaned closer, attitude taking on a more intense aspect, demanding attention. "Unsubstantiated rumor has it he's putting a new team together for some kind of major offensive -- what, we don't know yet. What we do know is that he's been recruiting mercenaries from all over the world, particularly men he worked with during the Viet Nam conflict. That could mean you. If he knows Saint John is back, it'll be him as well. Your old camaraderie could allow you to climb the pipeline far enough to discover the identity of whomever is behind the operation."  
  
Looking not at all pleased at the prospect, Hawke ran a hand through his brown hair, the jerky movement carrying an undercurrent of strain. "You're asking me to go undercover?"  
  
Archangel tipped his head. "We need to know what he's planning. He has to be stopped before any more American lives are lost -- or any other lives, for that matter." He studied the younger man for a long moment, debating with himself, then spread his hands in a 'Why not?' gesture. "Since the Firm cannot afford to be involved publicly, if you do go in, you'll be on your own. We can arrange a meet with one of his contacts but little more. But then, you should be used to working without a net by now, eh?"  
  
The background music changed, the Rolling Stones giving way to some sentimental ballad. Hawke went very still, seeming to shrink in on himself. "Not this time, Michael. I'm not taking missions now. Maybe not for a while ... or ever."  
  
But 'no' was not an answer Michael Coldsmith-Briggs was prepared to accept at even the most tranquil of times, one reason he'd been entrusted with the heavy responsibilities he carried. He leaned forward, single blue eye sharpening to drive home his point. "Excepting only for rumors, Bishop Morris has disappeared underground so completely we can't even smell him. We know whatever he's planning, it's going to be big, probably involving raids on additional weapons depots. You might be the only chance we have of infiltrating his organization and finding out what he's up to."  
  
The younger man crossed his arms across his chest, the gesture both defensive and stubborn. "Find someone else. I'm...." He trailed off, looking uncomfortable.  
  
"Not ready for this?" the older man supplied, studying him analytically. Hawke looked away, and, after a moment, the agent went on, "I know losing Dominic was rough, but it's been three months since he died." He ignored the barely perceptible flinch to press on, "Don't you think it's time to come out of that shell you built for yourself and rejoin the world? Your brother has been flying missions ever since he got back -- even gone undercover for a short time with Jason Locke."  
  
"Then get him to go," Stringfellow snapped through clenched teeth. "What Saint John and his team do is their own business."  
  
"And his team, eh?" Analysis shifted to curiosity. "You don't resent the fact that your brother has taken over Airwolf with a new team, do you?"  
  
Hawke's eyes burned into the single blue one regarding him quizzically. "Get this straight, Michael, I don't resent Saint John in any way or form. He's my brother. He's the one I fought so hard to bring home."  
  
Archangel's gaze softened. "You fought very hard for that. And now that he is home, you don't know what to do with yourself."  
  
"Just lay off, Michael," the young pilot growled, pushing back his chair. He made to rise, stopping when his wrist was encased in a powerful grip.  
  
"Whatever course you choose is your own business," Archangel stated brusquely. "My concern now is to save lives. Are you prepared to let good men die to avoid dirtying your hands again?"  
  
Bitterness flared, although Hawke aborted his attempt to rise. "That's a low blow and you know it. What's next, the appeal for Mom and apple pie?" He glanced down at his trapped wrist, voice rippling with hostility. "Is that why you wanted to see me here instead of at the cabin? You figured I'd have a few extra buttons to push away from home ground?"  
  
Archangel froze, then very slowly released his grip on the younger man, expression changing from persuasion to surprise. "What do you mean, my calling you here? Meeting in this place was your idea." The two stared at each other, then Michael repocketed the photo and extracted a snub-nosed Beretta from the holster concealed by the perfectly tailored suit, holding it low and out of view. He rose, casually reaching for his walking stick. "I've got a sudden bad feeling, Hawke. What do you say we continue this conversation elsewhere."  
  
Hawke too rose, jerking his head toward the neon exit sign to their right. "Back door sounds like a good idea to me."  
  
"Go." Moving nonchalantly so as to not attract notice, the two made their way through the little maze of tables, reaching the emergency exit without drawing so much as a glance from anyone in the room. Once there, Michael heaved a sigh of relief. "Maybe we have the drop on them."  
  
Or maybe not. He stepped out into the alley a single pace ahead of the pilot, and froze at the feel of cold steel being clapped to his temple. "Nice and easy, Blondie," a masculine voice ordered, plucking the Beretta from Michael's fingers.  
  
Hawke, a pace behind, had no opportunity to retreat. A shove from behind propelled him into the alley and nearly to his knees, but other hands had grabbed him and swung him to the side, slamming him hard against the building. Stringfellow Hawke reacted as he always did in such situations -- violently. Unconcerned with the large caliber machine pistols being pointed at him from four directions, he snapped into a combat stance, kicking out with his left leg and catching the nearest gunman in the stomach. He didn't stop there -- the side kick became a lunge, bringing his right fist into solid contact with a second man's breastbone. Two staggered but not down and not out. Reacting to the menace like a trained professional, a third man -- a ruddy skinned giant -- closed the distance in two bounds, and rammed his gun into Hawke's midsection, following up with a vicious roundhouse to the pilot's jaw. There was a flurry of punches and kicks from the understandably annoyed first two, then Hawke went down, a judicious slap of a steel gun barrel against the side of his head making sure he didn't get back up.  
  
Michael, still covered at very close range, shot a fast glance at his surroundings but there was no chance to assist without having his brains well and truly spattered, and no chance to win, anyway. Besides the four armed men, there was another standing out of range, similarly dressed in jeans and t-shirt and also armed with one of the deadly Mac 10 machine pistols that were so favored by criminal and law enforcement alike.  
  
It was then that another figure emerged from the dimly lit bar, the tall, thin man who'd approached Hawke earlier, and obviously the one who had precipitated the fight by pushing the pilot from behind. Alertly he surveyed the scene, from Michael, now held by two men and covered by a third, to Hawke, prone on the ground and making only feeble attempts to rise. He hesitated then slipped the Colt pistol he held into a holster under his jacket. "Rope," he ordered, all traces of softness gone and only the hardened soldier remaining. "Thirty seconds." As Hawke was hauled to his feet, the blue eyes opened to stare puzzledly at the man, who smiled and batted his eyelashes. "Good cover, eh?" he jeered in his deep bass voice. "You tend not to notice someone who's beneath your notice. Remember that."  
  
"Would you like to tell us what you want?" Archangel invited politely as his and Hawke's hands were being bound behind them.  
  
The man shrugged, closing the conversation, his humor fading. He'd obviously given out all the information he was going to. Michael allowed himself to be ushered into the backseat of a dark sedan, scooting over to allow another of the captors to manhandle Hawke in next to him. The thin, mustached man slid in next to Hawke, another in the front seat, both discouraging any thoughts of escape by keeping their weapons carefully aimed. A third man slid behind the wheel and they started off, the remaining attackers scattering to their own transportation.  
  
Briggs, a neutral expression on his handsome face, used the opportunity to check his friend, who had spilled to the side and was leaning heavily against him. Michael twisted, nudging the younger man upright with his shoulder, inspecting his pupils and the spreading purple marks that colored the right temple area and jaw. Hawke blinked at him then turned away.  
  
"We got suckered like amateurs," the young pilot growled, directing his glare at the gunman in the front seat.  
  
"We got suckered by professionals," Michael amended fairly, more pragmatic than his companion. "Security's been breached somewhere along the line. But by whom?"  
  
"And why?" Hawke added thoughtfully, testing his bonds.  
  
But there was no answer from the captors. The two men could only settle back in their seat and wait out the very long trip to what could prove to be their final destination.  
  
***  
  
195---  
  
"Honey! Look who's here!" The new white house remained unresponsive to Dominic's cheerful hail, the door most steadfastly locked tight. He was, however, aware of at least three of his new neighbors sticking their heads outside their respective windows to see what the fuss was about. "Californians sure are nosy," he grumbled under his breath, nevertheless giving them a cheerful wave before ushering his guests to the porch.  
  
The tall, rangy man directly to his left, chuckled and tapped him on the shoulder. "Comes with the territory," he returned amiably. "You were the one who wanted to leave San Remo for the big city life of Van Nuys, California."  
  
Santini huffed. "Big city life. HA! You been spendin' too much time in Colorado, Alan. Maybe in forty years this place'll qualify as more than a dirt airstrip with houses." He spread his hands, nearly knocking over the slender, auburn haired woman to his rear. "Oop! Sorry, Carmella! Got excited. Imagine Van Nuys in the year ... oh, 2000."  
  
Carmella Hawke shifted the infant she carried higher on her shoulder, cradling the tiny head more securely under her own chin. "Dirt airstrip or not, if you can land a plane on it, I'm sure Alan will find an excuse to do it. Saint John! Come back here!" That last was addressed to the energetic five year old who was chasing a calico cat in the neighbor's yard. The bronze haired kindergartner grinned at his mother and ambled slowly back, stopping several times to investigate things of interest. Carmella let out her breath in a long sigh. "That boy! Just like his father -- always into something."  
  
Her husband lifted her long auburn hair, letting it trickle through his fingers, then slipped an arm around her slim waist. "Being just like me means having a beautiful wife, two wonderful sons and his whole life ahead of him. Is that so bad?"  
  
Dom regarded the family with old affection. "She's right, Alan, he is turning into the spitting image of you -- same coloring, same stubbornness. Only thing he's missing is that chin fuzz you're sporting."  
  
Alan scratched at the short bronze beard he'd worn since the move to Colorado. "Give him time. He's already borrowing my razor. Of course, he used it to shave the dog...."  
  
Dom chortled and took the child's hand, kneeling until they were eye level. "Hey, Saint John, wait'll you meet my daughter, Sally Anne. She's only a year or two older than you are, so I think you'll get along."  
  
"Does she like to play catch?" the boy returned dubiously. "My little brother don' like to play catch." He stopped, looking briefly sad. "Josh liked to play catch."  
  
Carmella swallowed, her expression growing forced. "String's only a baby, sweetheart," she told him. "Wait until he's older and you'll have a good playmate."  
  
"Until then, you can play with Sally Anne." Dom patted the boy's head and stood, using his key to unlock the front door and leading the way into the house. "Lyla!" he called again. "The Hawkes are here! They just got in from Colorado!"  
  
Again there was no response. Dom left his guests in the foyer with the admonition to, "Make yourselves at home," then did a quick walk through. Kitchen, bedrooms and den yielded nothing. It wasn't until he'd returned to the living room that he saw it -- the lavender envelope taped to the desk. Shaking with a foreshadowing of catastrophe, he ripped the envelope open and scanned the single sheet inside.  
  
"Oh, my...." Numbed, he sank into the armchair, all the starch leaving his legs at once. He was only vaguely aware of Carmella Hawke calling his name, or Alan removing the paper from his loose grip. All he could see were the words written in a flowery hand that would remain burned into the foolscap of his brain for the rest of his life:  
  
Dominic: I need a real man instead of a broken down pilot, so Richard and I have decided to go away together. I'm talking Sally Anne with me. I intend to give her a better life than that lousy dirt town you made me move to. Don't try to find us or I'll make you sorry.  
  
The note had been unsigned.  
  
"She took her," Dom whispered, too shocked to feel anger or sorrow at his wife's infidelity. "She took my daughter. She took my Sally Anne!"  
  
"Oh, Dom!" Carmella took his hand, Hawke clasping his shoulder, the both of them nearly as dazed as he was. "I'm so sorry."  
  
Spasmodically, Dom jerked to his feet, shaking off his friends' touch. "She took my daughter," he repeated, choking on the word. He blinked back the fog that was substituting for his reason to find himself standing over the baby Carmella had hastily deposited on the sofa. He dropped to his knees and picked the boy up, cradling him in one big arm as he would a fragile flower -- as he had once cradled Sally Anne. The child nestled trustingly against him, blinking at the droplets which splashed its tiny face.  
  
Something touched his hand and Santini looked up to meet the solemn gray eyes of the older Hawke boy, who was leaning against him. "Are you okay, Uncle Dom?" Saint John asked sympathetically, slipping his small arm around Dominic's neck. But there was no answer for the boy, for Dom doubted he would ever be okay again. He gathered the children closer and lowered his head, seeking solace in their small forms. It was then that the tears began in earnest, shattering the dam comprised of shock, and flowing freely from his broken heart.  
  
*** 


	4. Chapter 4

Although somewhat quieter, even at eight o'clock p.m. Van Nuys Airport was a long way from uninhabited. All across the field owners-mechanics were busy with the routine daily tasks that kept their vehicles in the air. Here and there engines revved, tools clanked and men cursed, cramming as many ground repairs as possible into the evening and thus reserving the sunlit hours for the practice of fabled Daedalus' gift to humanity -- the power of flight.  
  
At Santini Air, these never ending chores were accomplished for the day. Three people sat slumped in the rear controller's office, cups of stale coffee clasped in tired hands. Silence was the order for a long time, finally broken by a grease stained Mike Rivers, who wrinkled his nose at his cup.  
  
"Man," he groaned, risking a sniff. "How old is this stuff, anyway? For a minute I thought I got hold of the paint thinner."  
  
Joanna Santini groaned and put her feet up on her desk one at a time. "It could be the paint thinner for all my stomach knows. Anybody have a Rolaid handy?"  
  
"I think I have a Lifesaver," Saint John Hawke offered, digging into his jeans pocket. He withdrew a lint-festooned packet and tossed it the short distance to the woman, who allowed it to bounce off her chest to the floor. "Good catch," he remarked, lethargically watching it roll under her chair.  
  
Jo hmphed, her breath stirring a strand of long blonde hair that had escaped the barrette she wore. "Lifesavers won't cut it, Saint John. I need food. Food and a shower." She rubbed wearily at the oily stains that covered her once white coverall. "How long did it take us to get the Steerman back together, anyway? It feels like we've been working on it for days."  
  
To her right, Mike glanced at his wristwatch, having to scrape grease off its face with his thumb before he could read it. "Nine hours, thirty-seven minutes, not counting the delivery time on the new parts."  
  
"All from cheap fuel," Saint John said, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. "Next time we only go with a supplier with a reference."  
  
"He had a reference," Jo groaned, wiggling her sneaker clad feet on the desk, "from Jake. I think he must be getting a referral fee or something."  
  
Mike indicated the worn auxiliary pump sitting on the stack of newspapers to protect the old carpet. "First thing tomorrow I'm going to take that down to Kimball Oil and shove it up the owner's nose. If there hadn't been so much sediment in his tanks, this would have lasted."  
  
"Think he'll pay for the parts?" Jo asked hopefully. "This really is an expense we can't meet."  
  
Hawke raised his head, fixing her with sharp gray eyes. "Is the money situation really that bad? I know what you told String, but if you need help, I can...."  
  
Jo waved her hand but the smile she gave him was grateful. "Not necessary, Saint John. Santini Air is meeting its own expenses ... or we would be if we weren't spending so much time lately on Jason's assignments instead of charters. He may be paying a salary, but it's not always enough to run a transport business."  
  
"Assignments are basically what I'm here for," Mike pointed out, scratching his stubbled jaw. "Working at Santini Air is my cover for Company missions. Saint John's too, if you get down to it."  
  
"I know that." Jo kicked at the stack of invoices by her left foot; the topmost was emblazoned with the red inked, AMOUNT DUE. "It's just that I ... well, Uncle Dom wasn't rich but he turned a profit with this company and I want to, too. If only to prove I can do it."  
  
"You don't have to prove anything, Jo," Hawke told her. "Not to us."  
  
"I know that too," the woman returned. "But maybe I have to prove it to myself. I've spent my whole life working as a chopper jockey for other people. This is my chance to make it on my own and I really want to make it work even without that salary Jason got for me. Not that it's much for sitting around on stand-by most of the time." She grinned at Mike, who was studying the depths of his cup as though there was something alive in it. "Maybe I should join the Air Force and pull in the big bucks like Major Rivers does."  
  
Mike hooted derisively. "Right. Biiiig bucks. And I get to travel, too -- Iran, Cambodia, Afghanistan...."  
  
Saint John interrupted the familiar if insincere litany. "You need to give yourself a chance, Jo. It's only been three months since you took over Santini Air, and a lot of that was spent working for Locke." He stretched his long legs in front of him and crossed his ankles. "You need time to build up the clientele again. We've lessons booked through every week, and a few more charters should catch up all those bills. And you'll do even better once word gets around."  
  
"I should already have that from the reputation Uncle Dom had." Jo leaned forward until she could place her mug on the desk without lowering her propped up feet. "According to his books ..." She indicated some ledgers on a shelf behind where Hawke was sitting. "... he was doing fine. Charters were always light but he did real well from those movie shoots. And the stunts...!" She sighed. "I sure would like to sink my teeth into them! But Bellisarius and Warner both cancelled the contracts as soon as they heard about Uncle Dom and String, and none of the other production companies want inexperienced stunt pilots, either."  
  
"Inexperienced?" Mike stared disbelievingly. "Between the three of us, we've got seventy or eighty years air time logged. What kind of experience do they want, anyway?"  
  
"Movie experience," Jo grumbled, brushing that annoying strand of hair out of her mouth. She sighed again, a wistful look on her pretty face. "Just think -- working with stunt men and gaffers and cameramen and best boys ... whatever they are. Actors and actresses. I think that would be great."  
  
"It might be fun at that," Rivers agreed, following Jo's example and also putting his feet up on the desk. "As a kid I used to want to be an actor more than anything. Next to piloting, that is."  
  
Saint John turned his head to regard the younger man with overt amusement. "You, Mike? An actor?"  
  
Round chin in the air, boyish features cavalier, Rivers struck a pose that might have been a formal bow had he not been sitting on his spine. "Whass'a matter?" he asked. "You don't think I'm the leading man type?  
  
Hawke chuckled snidely. "Yeah, for a Godzilla movie."  
  
"I'll have you know, Mister Saint John Hawke, that in high school I played the lead in the school play." Rivers dropped his feet to the floor and straightened, one arm upraised. "You, my friend, are looking at the star of the Malibu High production of The Last of the Mohicans."  
  
"If you played the wolf," Saint John jeered good-naturedly, "I'd call it typecasting."  
  
Mike harumphed back, leaving it to Jo to pick up the lagging conversation. "Be that as it may, I'd still like a few openings in the business. We might not know the photography techniques, but we can at least fly the stunts." She lightly clasped her hands in her lap. "I talked to that Leonardi guy over at Lucas this morning."  
  
"You didn't mention it," Saint John Hawke prodded with interest. "I assume that means we didn't get the job?"  
  
She rolled her eyes. "If we had've gotten the job, everyone from here to Schenectady would have known it. He asked me very politely about the business, gave his condolences on Uncle Dom and asked if String was going to be doing any flying."  
  
"My brother has a pretty good reputation in the business," Hawke said with brotherly pride.  
  
Jo gave him a dirty look. "Yeah, he does. But no one wants to hire Santini Air for stunt flying without Uncle Dom or String in the picture." The dirty look became a glower. "However, if I ever want to become a kept woman, I'm welcome to call Jocko Leonardi any time."  
  
"Everyone should have a career," Rivers remarked to Saint John with unholy glee. "At least you have someone ... er, something to fall back on!"  
  
Disdaining a verbal retort as beneath her, Jo stuck out her tongue instead. "When String gets back I'm going to really push him to help us out at least with the stunt contracts if not the photography side. It's about time he rejoined the human race anyway."  
  
"We could also use some help fixing Airwolf's weapons deployment pod," Mike interjected. "He's been flying the Lady longer than the three of us put together and should know her innards pretty well. Maybe he can show us a few shortcuts on that circuitry."  
  
Saint John sobered at that, his voice dropping and taking on a warning timbre. "Don't press him too hard, either of you. He might not be up to it."  
  
Jo tossed her head. "Nonsense. He'd've stayed up on that stupid mountain forever if Uncle Dom hadn't dragged him down for flying jobs. Uncle Dom said he was starting to come down on his own the last few months, and even went on a couple of dates." Hawke was regarding her doubtfully, and she wiggled in her chair until she could fix him with a direct gaze. "That is what he needs, Saint John, someone to drag him down here and make him part of the team. You said the same thing yourself just this morning. Besides, he shouldn't be alone so much; he'll feel better once he's around people again."  
  
"Yeah, but will we?" Mike said gloomily. "If he and that sweet temper are going to be hanging around, things could be a little abrasive for awhile. In case you didn't notice, he and I don't exactly get along like ... well, like brothers."  
  
A touch of the rogue appeared in Hawke's bland face; he turned one hand palm up. "You just have to learn to ignore him, Mikey, boy. It worked for me while he was growing up. Not very well, maybe, but...."  
  
"I can ignore him right up until I punch him out," Rivers warned only half- joking. "Or him me. There's definitely a confrontation brewing here, comrades, and I don't see any way out of it."  
  
Again Hawke waved that away. "What's a couple of bruises between friends?" Mike growled something unprintable, and Saint John grinned. "String's a little hard to get to know, but he's a good man to have backing you."  
  
"He's got a quality you've always appreciated, Mike," Jo put in. "Loyalty. To a fault. There isn't anything he wouldn't do for a friend, and once he gives you his trust, you have it for life. You saw what he went through for Archangel."  
  
"Of course, nobody's perfect," Saint John grumbled, mouth twisting at the agent's reference.  
  
His companions turned to look at him. "Do I detect dissension in the ranks?" Mike wondered aloud, blue eyes going wide. "Not too fond of your kid brother's boss, eh?"  
  
"His ex-boss," Hawke corrected firmly, sitting up very straight in his chair. "If String's going to be taking any missions, it's going to be with us and Jason, not on his own with that guy."  
  
Jo exchanged a look with Mike, then said cautiously, "String worked off and on for the Firm for years -- with Archangel ever since they started testing Airwolf."  
  
"And look where it got him," Hawke shot testily back. "Left alone to die in some hospital ward, while you all have to go against orders to pull me away from Buchard ... who was hired by the Company! Yeah, I feel real secure knowing String has backup like Michael Briggs."  
  
Even the irrepressible Mike Rivers was sobered by his tone. "Didn't you say they had a meet set up this morning? It could've been a job."  
  
"For information." Hawke's large hand tightened around his cup until the paper began to bend. "String said he was going to refuse any missions for a while."  
  
Ignoring the warning in the gray eyes, Mike plunged on, his expression acknowledging the distaste this concept would engender in his friend. "He's been gone all day, Saint John. Archangel might have persuaded him into going back to work for the Company."  
  
"That guy couldn't persuade String to cross the street," the older pilot growled, "not unless he was holding something over his head."  
  
"Like you?"  
  
"Like me."  
  
Obviously in a suicidal mood, Mike waved one hand casually, a spark of mischief in his face that immediately brought Hawke around to face him warily. "Funny. From what I could see, Archangel and your brother didn't come off as the antagonistic but tolerant enemies you're trying to paint them. Look how glad they were to see each other after we got back from Mexico. Hugged and everything," he added, twisting the knife.  
  
Jo, perceptively picking up on the undercurrents of the conversation, leaned her head back to study Hawke narrowly. "I thought you and Michael were getting along pretty well at the cabin last month. He was certainly grateful for the rescue."  
  
Rivers pulled a towel out of his pocket and used it to wipe grease smears off his face, perversely changing sides just to be irritating. "He was about to be sold to an unfriendly country. Attila the Hun would've been grateful for the rescue."  
  
"Besides which I wasn't expecting any of us to be working with him again," Hawke interjected, tapping his foot. "I thought Newman had this unit sewed up."  
  
Jo smiled wistfully. "I don't know what you have against Michael, Saint John, but I certainly liked him. Such a charming man. And so handsome."  
  
"So are cobras charming and handsome." Hawke retorted, leaning stubbornly back and crossing his legs again. "Doesn't make them any less deadly." He glanced from one teammate to the other, finding curiosity but little commiseration. "All right, let's just say I don't trust him and never did." They stared back blandly, causing him to flush. "So sue me for watching out for my brother! Maybe String doesn't always see the down side in his friends."  
  
"He didn't look all that dense to me, big guy," Mike gibed, eyes sparkling devilishly. "I think he knows exactly what he's doing."  
  
Jo concurred firmly. "String's pretty sharp and you know it, Saint John. He's not the seventeen year old kid we sent off to Viet Nam; he's all grown up." She waggled her fingers, frowning reminiscently. "Even back then he had a good head. No sense of humor but a good head. We never did have to worry about him on that score."  
  
"Maybe," Hawke grumbled, patently unconvinced but forced to concede that particular issue. "But I hope he's choosing his real friends a little more carefully than his business acquaintances."  
  
Jo ignored him, doggedly finishing her point despite the interruption. "And String did take that dangerous mission in Mexico to rescue Michael. That must prove they're friends.  
  
"Any of us would have done that," Mike admitted fairly, balancing one sneaker over the other. "It's part of the job. Besides, he's as addicted to the rush as the rest of us."  
  
"I'm not addicted," Jo returned with a shudder. "Much as I love flying Airwolf, I could live forever without having anyone shoot at me." She paused. "Literally."  
  
That won hard stares from both Mike Rivers and Saint John Hawke. "We didn't know you felt that way, Jo," Saint John told her without reproach. "It never occurred to me you wouldn't love the action as much as we do."  
  
She looked as though she regretted saying anything at all. "I guess it's a little harder going from ferrying choppers to getting shot at in them. At least you two were trained for combat before you got dumped into it. And Caitlin O'Shaunessey was a cop, which must have helped. I ... guess it's just going to take a civilian like me a while to get used to it all."  
  
"When we see Locke we can tell him that," Mike said kindly, with none of his usual razzing. "You won't have to do it anymore."  
  
Jo shook her head vehemently at that. "No way! If you guys are going in, so am I. It's a lot worse sitting here waiting for you than it is being in the thick of things."  
  
Mike nodded understanding. "I'll vouch for that. Can't stand waiting on anyone. Makes me antsy."  
  
"Speaking of which...." Saint John lifted his right wrist, looked at the watch there. "How about one of you giving me a lift home. It's getting late."  
  
Mike assumed an upright stance, rubbing at his back as he straightened. "What happened? Baby brother didn't bring the Jimmy back?"  
  
Gray eyes sparkled with amusement. "One of these days," Saint John warned, "you're going to forget and call him that to his face. And he's going to knock your teeth in."  
  
Mike grinned boyishly. "I've got a feeling that's going to happen sooner or later anyway, no matter what I call him. Who knows? After I beat him up, we might become best friends."  
  
"Provided you survive the experience," Saint John Hawke jeered back amiably. "The guy could always pull his weight."  
  
"When Air force meets Army," Rivers returned with his own pride, "the Air Force always comes out on top." Unit honor satisfied, he changed the subject. "So what are you kids doing tonight? Want to watch a movie? By coincidence, Prehistoric Cave Women from the Planet Hooter is on the tube."  
  
Hawke and Jo exchanged a disbelieving look. "That's never a real movie?" Jo asked skeptically.  
  
Rivers shrugged without embarrassment. "Well, yeah, it's a real movie. I saw it listed on one of the new cable channels. It should be a ... hoot!"  
  
There were double groans, then Jo heaved herself to her feet. "I think I'll pass. I'm having enough trouble dealing with what's happening on this planet lately."  
  
Hawke yawned and stretched, also standing. "Me, too. Not that I don't think Prehistoric Cave Women from the Planet Hooter would be a fascinating movie to watch, of course ..."  
  
"Of course," Rivers interjected impishly.  
  
"... but I don't think I'm up for it tonight. I'm spending all day tomorrow working on Airwolf." He poked a finger at the other man. "And you're helping me, don't forget."  
  
Mike stood and led the way to the door. "Suit yourselves, but you'll be missing.... Uh-oh."  
  
"Uh-oh?" Santini and Hawke echoed from a step behind. "Uh-oh, what?" Saint John demanded.  
  
"Uh-oh, me," came a new voice from the passage. It was followed by the appearance of a tall, well-dressed black man a moment later. His tailored brown suit hung from a muscled frame, hair and mustache both perfectly trimmed. He looked as neat as if he'd just stepped out of the shower for all that he must have put in as long a day as the three pilots. The black man smiled. "Glad I caught you before you left."  
  
"Who says you did, Jason?" Mike growled, looking resigned nonetheless. "I'd be happy if we just pretended you'd missed me and came back in the morning."  
  
Jason Locke stepped completely into the room and looked around. "Sorry. No can do." He stopped just across the threshold and gestured at the coffeepot. "Anybody mind?"  
  
"It's your stomach," Rivers muttered, retreating sullenly back to his chair.  
  
Locke shrugged and helped himself to the pot. He poured a white styrofoam cup half full, then added sugar and creamer. During this procedure, Jo also returned to her seat behind the desk and Saint John Hawke leaned against the wall. The three pilots maintained a politic silence until the black agent turned from the pot, doctored coffee held securely in his right hand.  
  
"I suppose you're wondering why I called you all here," he began, mustache twitching in a brief smile.  
  
"I'm wondering why I'm not home in bed," Mike grumbled, retrieving his own coffee cup from where he'd left it only minutes earlier on Jo's desk. "I could be watching half naked cave women right about now."  
  
Saint John crossed his arms on his chest, more watchful than sullen. "You've got a mission for us? Or does this have to do with String?"  
  
Locke took the seat abandoned by Hawke earlier. "This doesn't have anything to do with your brother. I've got a mission for this team. Not tonight," he told Rivers, aborting the protest before it could be uttered. "Upcoming. I think you should hear about it now and be ready."  
  
Mike exchanged a glance with Saint John, who maintained a stony silence. "Maybe you ought to talk to Archangel before you plan any missions in Airwolf," the younger pilot mentioned, earning himself a glare from Hawke. "He set up a meeting with Saint John's brother this morning. We don't know what it was about, but Airwolf is a prime possibility."  
  
Locke turned on them both with a frown. "Archangel no longer liaisons with this team," he snapped. "I do."  
  
Hawke spread his hands in a don't-ask-me gesture, then refolded them. "All we know is that String borrowed my car to meet with Archangel. It might not have anything to do with Airwolf; with the ADF pod still damaged, she's not going to be available for at least another day, maybe two."  
  
"And it's not like Michael outranks you or anything," Mike jeered, emphasizing the difference in the two agents' positions by holding one hand high over his head and the other one at knee level.  
  
Again there was that slight humorous twitch of the mustache even though the irritation didn't leave the black man's eyes. "Okay, so I don't rate as high as the Deputy Director of Operations, but procedure dictates that I be notified of any missions impinging on my realm of authority. That includes you all and Airwolf."  
  
Jo brushed the hair out of her face for the dozenth time that day. "As Saint John said, it might not have anything to do with Airwolf. After all, we occasionally do ground missions for the Company; maybe String does, too."  
  
"You only do ground missions when there's a good chance Airwolf will be needed," Locke pointed out firmly, jabbing his cup in her direction for emphasis. "Michael used outside agents freely, but I've been trying to restrict knowledge of the Lady close to this team; that's why I've used you three so much. Besides, Archangel can draw on several hundred people world- wide; he wouldn't need to rely on a maverick ... I mean, independent pilot."  
  
"You can find out what's going on when you get back to Knightsbridge," Saint John said calmly, hard-learned stoicism preventing even a hint of the impatience Jo and Mike were showing from touching his features. "Why don't you tell us about the mission. You said it wouldn't be going down tonight, anyway."  
  
Locke took a gulp from his cup then made a face and stared down into its depths much as Mike had done earlier. "Did I pour the paint thinner by mistake?" He shrugged, took another sip and briefly scanned the assembled trio. "Ever hear of a group called Muhallah?"  
  
"Wasn't that in the newspapers?" Jo asked, large blue eyes wide. "They're that terrorist group working out of ... is it Syria? They've claimed responsibility for blowing up some American installations in Europe."  
  
Locke pursed his full lips grimly. "Not just blowing up American installations. Raiding them."  
  
"Obviously we're talking about American military installations?" Saint John guessed, annoyance melted away now that the discussion no longer centered on his brother.  
  
Locke nodded. "American recently, but they've hit NATO weapons depots all across Europe. Missiles, rockets, ammo -- they've filled somebody's Christmas wish list to the max. Rumor is that they're going to be using those weapons soon. Israel is the target of choice. And Israel," he finished with a genial wave, "is one of our best allies."  
  
Mike sighed and sank lower in his chair. He leaned his head against its back, tilting it until he could watch Locke out of one eye. "And the Company is going to want Airwolf in on the assault against this Muhallah's base of ops, right? As what? Solo or part of a task force?"  
  
"Why not just send in the Air Force or Navy fighters?" Jo asked naively. "Isn't that what they're for?"  
  
There was a moment's hesitation before Locke's head came up. "Officially, the United States can not become involved in any strikes in Syrian air space at this time. There's some high level negotiations going on right now with several of the Palestinian groups that could be jeopardized by a full scale military assault on their turf. But a covert offensive -- one helicopter with enough fire power to cripple Muhallah until the negotiations are over...."  
  
"Provided they're keeping all those weapons in one spot," Saint John said, gray eyes calculating.  
  
Jason waved one hand. "Word has it that they've only got one central stockpile for the stuff right now, but that's going to change soon. As soon as we find out where that stockpile is, we'll be going in after it."  
  
The three considered the implications of this; a single-craft attack against the heavily armed group could be dangerous if not suicidal. "Any leads yet?" Mike asked, not the flicker of an eyelash betraying any of the reservations he must be having.  
  
Jason finished his coffee and put the styrofoam cup on the desk. Jo wearily scooped it up and dumped it in the nearby wastecan. "Locating Muhallah isn't being handled by Newman's department. Pamela, one of Michael's angels, is coordinating that phase. I don't know the particulars but I do know she's managed to identify the head of the raids. He's an American by the name of Bishop Morris."  
  
Saint John stiffened, drawing away from the wall and dropping his hands to his sides. "Bishop Morris. Big guy, black, would be in his mid-forties now, with a scar about here." He traced his jawline from ear to chin.  
  
Cocking his head alertly, Jason too drew himself erect. "That's Morris. How do you know him?"  
  
Gray eyes narrowed with distaste. "Officially, he was a chopper pilot associated with one of my early crews. He flew cover for my team in 'Nam for about a year before Marty Vidor took command and kicked him out. Unofficially, he was Colonel Phil Curtis' right hand man."  
  
"Colonel Curtis!" Jo, like the others, gaped at the familiar name. "The same Colonel Curtis that was killed a few weeks ago when we helped break up that opium ring?"  
  
Hawke nodded. "One and the same. Colonel Curtis had already started selling drugs to the kids in the area, and Morris helped him distribute. He was bad news. He used to brag about making more money there in a week than he could back home in a year. When Curtis got transferred he brought Morris along so they could work as a team at their stinking racket."  
  
"I take it you like him about as much as you liked Curtis," Mike remarked with a wry smile. "How come you never turned him in?"  
  
Hawke tossed his head. "The guy was scum, but clever. Everybody knew what he was doing but he never left evidence around, and he was too good a pilot to throw away without proof." He swallowed as though there was a bad taste in his mouth, his gaze briefly focusing on a scene two decades old. "In 'Nam ninety percent of the troops dealt with the black market in some form or another, even if it was only to score American bubblegum. You minded your own business and did your own job. Way it was."  
  
"It doesn't sound very nice," Jo said, frowning disapprovingly. "You'd think somebody would care if the law was being broken."  
  
Saint John tilted his head until he could meet her eyes, his own curiously flat. "A lot of laws get broken during wartime. You do what you can when you can and wear heavy blinders the rest of the time."  
  
"Amen," Jason muttered, his own days in Viet Nam rife in his dark features. He came back to himself with a snap, face clearing. "It seems Bishop Morris decided to get religion a few months ago ... or, at least, a well paying job with Muhallah. We suspect the next raid will take place on one of the NATO installations in Greece but that's still only rumor. Pamela thinks Archangel had a shot at finding out who was bankrolling Muhallah through Morris."  
  
"Didn't he brief you?" That was Mike, who was yawning but reasonably attentive now that he knew he didn't have to do any flying tonight.  
  
Jason shook his head. "He said only that he had a possible inside contact, who would be able to feed us the information we'd need to make the hit." Irritation crossed his face, the grimace mingled with resignation. "Michael can be even more tight-lipped on this need-to-know stuff than I am when he puts his mind to it. There are times when he pushes the 'they don't tell me, I don't tell you,' principle to new limits."  
  
"Worse than you? That's a little hard to believe," Jo teased, smiling warmly to remove any possible offense from the statement. "You talk about as much as String does when there's something you don't want to say."  
  
Locke smiled back; he'd always liked Jo. "Me as bad as Stringfellow Hawke? Bite your tongue, girl! Although I'd've liked to see what kind of normal rapport he had with Michael. That could have been interesting to watch."  
  
"It would have been boring," Saint John corrected from his post against the wall. "String can go days without uttering more than a grunt."  
  
"And Michael can talk for hours and convey about the same amount of information," Jason volleyed with a chuckle. "Those two were well matched." He sighed and stared at his hands, turning the heavy gold ring on his right pinky around thoughtfully, his slumped shoulders betraying his own weariness. "Unfortunately, that doesn't help us much. Without knowing who Michael's source of information is, we're stuck with sitting and waiting for the word to come down."  
  
"Always the hardest part," Rivers said sympathetically. He, Jo and Jason all jumped when Hawke slapped his forehead with a loud clap.  
  
"String!" the big blond exclaimed. "He's Archangel's source of information."  
  
Jason looked puzzled. "What?"  
  
Fists on his hips, Saint John left the wall to step closer to the trio's chairs. "Archangel had a meeting with String this morning. It probably had something to do with Bishop Morris! I knew Morris about six months to a year before String shipped in. As soon as he got there Bishop made a move on him, trying to recruit him to courier drugs in and out of 'Nam." Hawke's long jaw tightened, disgust deepening the creases around his eyes and wide mouth. "Morris used to hit on all the new kids as soon as they arrived, offer them drugs and women, persuade them to work for him once they were hooked."  
  
"Dealing with the kid brother of ol' Straight-Arrow Saint John Hawke," Mike interjected with a grin, "I'll bet Morris didn't get too far."  
  
Saint John relaxed fractionally, the memory of his brother's reaction removing some of the indignation. "String was only seventeen when I arranged for him to join me after Marty Vidor was promoted to Colonel," he acknowledged with a nod, "but he knew the situation was less than groovy and was steering clear even before I had a chance to warn Morris off." He focussed first on Jason, shifting to stare at a spot on the painted wall. "It didn't dawn on me at first because they only had casual, professional contact before Morris was transferred to Colonel Curtis' staff, but I'll bet String is Archangel's possible source. He might want him to infiltrate on the basis of old Army contacts." He punched one hand with the other, rubbing his knuckles. "Why didn't Michael come to me, instead? I was the one who knew Morris back then."  
  
"Good question. Perhaps he was looking for someone with a little less history?" Locke's dark eyes gleamed as he calculated the probability that this was the answer. "But I thought your brother wasn't doing any jobs for a while. Has he changed his mind?"  
  
"Addicted," Jo murmured cryptically.  
  
Jason shot her a puzzled look but addressed Saint John. "Nevertheless, you may have hit on the answer. Whatever Archangel's source, we'll be leaving as soon as we know where and when, so you and Mike try to stay close."  
  
"What about me?" Jo asked, a curious mixture of eagerness and trepidation shading her pretty face.  
  
"You, too," Jason told her. "Not in Airwolf, but we might need an intermediary on the ground, probably in Athens base. I'll know more once I hear from Archangel."  
  
Jo sighed but her smile was bright. "Well, I always wanted to see Greece. Not necessarily from inside a bunker...."  
  
"All assuming," Hawke interjected reasonably, although there was little doubt and less approval on his strong-planed face, "that that's what Archangel wanted String to do, and that String was willing."  
  
"He must have been," Rivers said. "After all, what else has he been doing all day?"  
  
*** 


	5. Chapter 5

After driving for hours, the dark sedan carrying Stringfellow Hawke and Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III pulled up in front of a large, sprawling estate many miles off a desert road. Once there, they were yanked unceremoniously out of the car and hustled through the front door.  
  
"Take them into the study," the thin man ordered the two other 'escorts,' speaking for the first time since the trip began. He gestured with his gun to a short, pudgy attendant in butler's uniform, who had opened the door for them. "Tell the boss we're here."  
  
The thin man followed his charges through the house, arriving in their wake at a spacious, book-lined chamber, paneled in walnut and filled with comfortably masculine leather furniture. "Nice, huh?" he asked the prisoners, regaining his conversational ability without preamble. "Gonna have me a place like this someday. Someday soon."  
  
Stretching as much as possible to ease the cramp in their bound hands and arms, Michael and Stringfellow turned in opposite directions, examining the room for themselves. Sharp blue eyes sized up every detail of their location, from solid looking door to large bay window set in the far wall. "You can see for miles in this clear desert air," Michael remarked, wandering toward the window, permanent limp more pronounced after spending so long immobile. "We've been heading northwest, haven't we?"  
  
"We're near Las Vegas," Hawke said, coming to join his partner, also keeping his weight on his good leg. "Not more than an hour south by my reckoning."  
  
Michael nodded absently, craning his neck to see as much of the grounds as possible. "Pretty view. And it worries me greatly that we can see it at all." At his companion's raised brow he explained, "No blindfold means they're not worried that we'll be able to report any of this later."  
  
The younger man's head bobbed, dislodging a strand of longish blond-brown hair to his forehead. "Because we're not expected to come out of this alive no matter what happens."  
  
Briggs glanced meaningfully at their three jeans-clad escorts. "Right."  
  
They turned in unison as the library door opened again to admit two figures, both as fair as Michael. The first was masculine -- fiftyish but well-preserved, handsome lean face highlighted by a pair of cruel arctic blue eyes. Approximately Michael's six foot height, he was dressed in a blue silk Versace suit that had cost as much as some men earned in a year. The second was a woman, six inches shorter and willowy, her platinum hair pulled back in a severe french twist and her eyes the same color as the male's if less cold. The two strolled into the room arm-in-arm, followed by two additional soldiers, both dressed similarly in olive drab fatigues and carrying assault rifles.  
  
"Stringfellow Hawke," the man boomed genially, taking a lighted cigar out of his mouth. "How good to see you again."  
  
There was no answer from the young pilot at first. At sight of these two, Stringfellow Hawke went utterly still, eyes narrowing into slits and glittering like bits of sapphire. "I should have known it would be you," he spat, avoiding the girl's questing gaze to glare into her companion's face.  
  
Michael glanced from their captors to Hawke once, then took a step forward until they were shoulder to shoulder. "I don't believe we've had the pleasure, Mr. Horn," he said politely.  
  
White, white teeth flashed in a delighted grin. "No, Mr. Coldsmith-Briggs, we haven't, although I daresay we know each other as intimately as if we'd been born from the same womb!" He bowed slightly from the waist. "John Bradford Horn, sir, at your service." He indicated his young female companion by lifting their joined arms. "My daughter, Angelica. My dear, I believe you'll remember Stringfellow Hawke?"  
  
Pink lips tightened, the woman did not acknowledge the urbanity any more than Hawke did. She dropped her eyes and switched uncomfortably from one high-heeled foot to the other. "Do I have to be party to this, Father?" she asked almost too low for the room to hear.  
  
Horn regarded her sharply although her obvious reluctance did nothing to dissuade his good humor. He tightened his hold on her elbow, pulling her closer against him. "I need you to be a part of this, Angelica. I need you to share my moment of triumph. But if you'd rather not...?" He inclined nearer her ear. "Must I remind you that the last time you met Mr. Hawke, he was trying to kill us both?"  
  
Translucent skin darkening in a flush, she did look up again at Stringfellow Hawke, who had shifted his focus to an invisible spot on the nearer wall. "No, Father, you do not. But that doesn't mean I want to be part of this."  
  
Horn's handsome face creased in a slight frown, clearing immediately. "Why don't you return to your room, Angelica. I shall notify you when dinner is ready."  
  
She nodded and spun on her heel, then paused and turned back, regarding Hawke's stony expression sadly. "I'm sorry things have to be like this, String. I wish they could be different."  
  
"Lover's spat?" Michael guessed, earning a glare from both Hawke and the woman.  
  
"We could have been." Surprisingly that was from Hawke, who had finally tilted his head to meet Angelica's seeking eyes. His face showed nothing but stubbornness but his low voice carried an emotional undertone recognizable to one who knew him as betrayal. "Given a little more time together, and a little honesty, we could have been."  
  
She looked away, her flush deepening. "I can't go against my father."  
  
"That's my girl," Horn boomed heartily. He clapped the young woman on the arm, ignoring the shudder this caused. "I knew I was right in trusting you."  
  
There was a knock at the door. At a gesture from Horn, one of the guards opened it to admit a second woman to the room. She was older than Angelica, in her early forties, perhaps, although still attractive, with the dark hair, pale skin and the high cheekbones of her Muskovite ancestors. "John, I thought I heard.... Oh, good! Our guests have arrived!"  
  
Hawke stared, slow recognition then shock rooting him in place. "I remember you," he blurted, startled out of his stoic silence.  
  
The woman's smile was slow and lazy, with a thread of such warmth that one might have mistaken her for a doting aunt rather than the dangerous professional she was. "Do you, Stringfellow?" she asked in lightly accented English. "I'm very flattered. You had so many other things in your mind, I would have thought our last meeting would have faded in your memory by now."  
  
Michael cocked her head, taking in her neat if conservative gray suit jacket and black skirt, the friendly smile and untouchable distance in the brown eyes. "Although we've never met, I'm acquainted with your work in the field of mind control, Dr. Zarkov. I understand the KGB was quite sorry to lose you."  
  
"You see, Anastasia," Horn commented with a smirk, "you're not as unknown as you like to think. What the KGB knows, the Firm knows."  
  
"The KGB are a pack of idiots," the woman returned contemptuously, skimming Briggs' well-built figure with appreciation. "They didn't understand the need for patience to produce greatest effectiveness."  
  
"I suppose it takes time to properly brainwash someone," the agent code named Archangel returned with more steel than he'd heretofore permitted to show.  
  
She fluttered a hand negligently in Hawke's direction. "Ask our young friend about that. How long did it take for me to convince you to reveal where Airwolf was, Stringfellow?"  
  
"I won't be fooled like that again," Hawke growled, lean jaw clenched. "I still can't believe that you were able to convince me that that stranger was really my brother."  
  
A strand of short dark hair fell forward into her eyes, and Dr. Zarkov brushed it back. "You believed what you wished to believe, my darling. All I had to do was to supply your heart's delight. Speaking of which...." She pressed a long fingernail against her red lips thoughtfully. "John, are you sure you wish to go through with all that we discussed? It could cause difficulties in later stages."  
  
Support for this statement came, surprisingly, from Horn's opposite side. Angelica touched his arm, beautiful face raised to his in appeal. "She's right, Father, you don't have to do this. Not any of it. Please."  
  
Horn took her hand in his own, pressing it once before releasing it. It was, however, Zarkov he addressed. "Quite certain, Anastasia. Angelica and I...."  
  
"Angelica," the blonde woman snapped, "was just leaving." Perfectly coiffured platinum hair gleamed under the lights as she turned. "Don't bother calling me for dinner. I don't think I'm going to be hungry." She spun, navy skirt swirling around her shapely legs, and strode for the door. "I ... am sorry, Stringfellow," she offered, then she was gone, slamming the door behind her.  
  
Horn regarded the door thoughtfully for a single moment. "You'll have to excuse my daughter, gentlemen," he offered. "She always did tend to be high-strung. Too much like her mother, God rest her."  
  
"Interesting gene pool," Michael remarked dryly. He tossed his head, attempting to reposition his partially blacked out glasses higher on his nose to no avail. This did however earn Horn a reproachful look from Zarkov.  
  
"My dear John," she chided clucking her tongue. "Your hospitality is indeed lacking."  
  
Horn ducked his head sheepishly. "Rombauer," he said, tilting his head until he could peer down his aquiline nose at his captives.  
  
"Sir?" The thin, no-longer effeminate man took a step forward, although his gun never wavered from the center of Hawke's chest.  
  
Horn slapped his wrists together then pulled them apart. "You've neglected to make our guests comfortable. That's bad form, old boy. Why don't you untie their hands? With five guns trained on them, they won't be going anywhere, I'm certain."  
  
"I suppose not," the tall Rombauer returned with a gap-toothed grin. He handed his weapon to one of his casually clad comrades from the bar then, carefully avoiding blocking any of the guards' line of fire, he stepped behind first Michael then Hawke and untied the ropes binding their wrists. "There. Make yourselves ta' home, gents. Compliments of Mr. John Horn."  
  
Freed, Michael used the opportunity to adjust his white jacket across his broad shoulders, smoothing at the wrinkles in the expensive linen with his open palms; Zarkov watched him with renewed appreciation but said nothing. "You'll pardon me for not shaking," he remarked with that refined air he rarely lost even under adversity. "I'm afraid my fingers are a bit numb."  
  
"My apologies." Horn made his way to a small sideboard upon which sat a decanter and a set of crystal snifters. "May I offer you a drink to make up for it? Napoleon brandy. Very old."  
  
Hawke said nothing, merely stood where he was trying to rub circulation back into his swollen fingers. Michael, however, nodded graciously at his pseudo-host. "I adore Napoleon brandy. One of the few pleasures in this life that agrees with my stomach these days."  
  
Horn did the honors. He poured three glasses, offering one first to Zarkov, then to Archangel and retaining the third for himself. Holding the delicate crystal clumsily in both still-numb hands, Michael sniffed the brandy before taking a sip. "Ah. Excellent. There's nothing like a good cognac to clean the cobwebs out of the brain. Leaves it clear for ... bargaining?"  
  
This last was offered as a query, and provoked a low chuckle from Horn. "I like your style, Mr. Coldsmith-Briggs. Right to the point as civilized men. Unlike our Mr. Hawke, there, who never was strong on the social graces. Obviously, he never learned the value of coming to terms with one's situation."  
  
"Obviously," Michael answered with some coldness. "However, Hawke has the most respectable virtue of being forthright to a fault. One may not like it, but one at least knows where one stands with him."  
  
"There is the tiniest hint of a most charming innocence left in him that still believes nobility will triumph in the end." Zarkov seated herself on one end of the brown leather sofa, and crossed her legs, touching her chin with the tip of her finger. "Experience will disabuse him of the notion eventually although it has been a long time coming."  
  
There was a snort from the quietly standing Rombauer at that; Horn leaned his head back until he could see him out of one eye. "You don't agree with the fair Anastasia, Abraham?"  
  
The thin soldier adjusted his grip on his automatic, caressing the firing mechanism with his thumb. "Good always triumphs? Only a stupid man believes that, Boss. 'The good die young.' There's a saying to live by. ... Or not."  
  
The industrialist considered this, then shrugged. "Innocence or ignorance. Both can amount to the same thing."  
  
"Neither innocence nor ignorance are terms generally associated with Stringfellow Hawke," Michael commented coolly. "I believe the word you're looking for is morality. You may have to look up that definition." He cast his friend a glance, but Hawke was still contemplating the far wall, unaffected by either their enemies' derision or Michael's defense; he sighed and lowered himself clumsily onto the opposite end of the sofa, resting the glass on his knee. "Where do we stand with you, Mr. Horn? What is it you want from us this time? I assume it is us you were looking for?"  
  
"I would have staged a simple attack on Mr. Hawke's cabin had I wanted only him." Horn's handsome face froze, sky blue eyes glowing glacial. "Or was I mistaken in assuming that it was you who froze eighty percent of the liquid assets I was banking in Switzerland?"  
  
"Only eighty percent?" the agent returned, contriving to look modest and chagrined at once. "I must be slipping."  
  
"You still want Airwolf." Hawke's voice was low and biting and the look he turned on Horn was full of hostility. "And my head."  
  
Unruffled, the industrialist threw himself into a winged armchair opposite Archangel. "I've made no secret of that fact, Mr. Hawke. That magnificent flying weapon could simplify several of my projects."  
  
"Your last project was to take over a small island nation for use as a sovereign base," Michael remarked. "Has that changed?"  
  
Horn sampled his own glass, watching Briggs over the rim. "Not in the slightest. I'm very weary of ducking Interpol and your own international police forces. The life of a fugitive is hardly one I would have voluntarily chosen."  
  
"Your psychological profile does infer a need for some form of stable home base, John" Zarkov commented absently. "And it would be nice to have a solid environment to continue my research."  
  
He dismissed that with a wave. "However, I have many irons in the fire, Archangel, for which Airwolf would be most useful. And I must admit to having lost much self-esteem thanks to that last little debacle involving the young man there. Redeeming myself for that humiliation is a most inviting second choice." He sipped, regarding Hawke with a calculating eye. "Revenge would most certainly be as sweet as acquiring Airwolf. Frankly, I would prefer both; I may be persuaded to settle for the one."  
  
"I doubt it," Hawke spat with unhidden disdain. "Man like you is going to take whatever cheap shot he can get."  
  
"Revenge is getting closer and closer to supplanting my more practical incentives," Horn warned dangerously, anger visible for the first time. Abruptly he turned his attention back to the DNS agent, the amiable smile returning megawatt bright. "But enough of that! I must say, I had originally despaired of meeting you at all, Mr. Coldsmith-Briggs. You're a difficult man to locate."  
  
Michael crossed his legs sedately, hiking up the knee of his white trousers fractionally to accommodate the action. "I've only recently returned from the Far East -- our Hong Kong office. I've barely finished unpacking."  
  
"While your friend is still recovering from a six week stay in an Arizona hospital," Zarkov picked up, examining the pilot from head to foot. "Do sit down, Stringfellow. I'm sure your ankle must continue to ache after having been broken in so many places." Hawke ignored her in favor of continuing to scan his surroundings; he maintained his stiff posture, body tensed to take advantage of any opening for escape. Seeing this, Zarkov sighed. "I read your medical records, of course, after we located the clinic your brother took you to. You're fortunate to still be alive, young man."  
  
"How fortunate he is," Archangel interjected smoothly, "is going to depend on Mr. Horn's plans."  
  
Horn inclined his head in acknowledgment. "My terms are simple, and roughly the same as they were before. I want Airwolf and I want Hawke to pilot her for me. Minimum of three missions."  
  
Michael stroked his mustache thoughtfully with one forefinger, the other hand still cupping the brandy. "You might have heard that Hawke and I are no longer associated with Airwolf. The Firm has taken complete control of the aircraft. I'm afraid you've gone through the trouble of capturing the wrong men."  
  
"I'm aware that Airwolf has a new permanent flight crew." The information seemed to make no difference to the industrialist; rather, it only broadened his smile ever so slightly. "That would be Stringfellow's elder brother, Army Major Saint John Hawke, Air Force Major Mike Rivers and the new DNS liaison, Jason Locke. Oh, and I mustn't forget Miss Santini. I found the discovery of your brother in Cambodian hands most interesting," he added to the pilot as an aside. "Strategically speaking, that is."  
  
If it was at all possible, Hawke's face hardened even further, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "You leave my brother out of this," he growled. He clenched his fists, only the fact that several guns swung instantly to target his chest prevented mayhem from breaking out then and there.  
  
"Your brother wasn't the one who impeded my plans one year ago," the handsome former billionaire returned acidly, taking no notice of the barely averted skirmish. "However, my contact informs me that you still have access to Airwolf. That should be enough. Your brother's role at this point depends entirely on you."  
  
"Enough for what?" Michael asked, his refinement slipping in favor of brevity.  
  
Horn waved one perfectly manicured hand. "I understand that your section is investigating certain raids against NATO installations by the middle eastern group known as Muhallah."  
  
"I assume even you aren't planning on going up against the whole nation of Israel," Michael snorted. "They want to take Muhallah down pretty badly."  
  
Horn smoothed a crease in his blue trousers, his air nonchalant. "What Muhallah does with the weaponry I provide is not my concern, so long as I get paid ahead of time. Unfortunately, I'm having a minor cash flow problem; this should correct that." Noticing Michael's perplexity, he scowled. "You didn't seriously believe Muhallah was capable of coordinating those raids on NATO, did you?" He buffed his nails on his navy suit jacket proudly. "One of my employees is handling that part of it under my supervision. The weapons will be sold to Muhallah at a tidy profit."  
  
Michael's single blue eye lit with understanding. "That clears up the questions of why everything is being temporarily stockpiled at a single location, and why Muhallah's connection has been so tenuous. This isn't one single operation, but two."  
  
Horn nodded. "My contact tells me that the investigation of Muhallah's alliance with my ... employee is your department's province, Archangel. Something which understandably concerns me."  
  
"Your 'contact' is well informed. He must be highly placed within the organization." Briggs settled deeper into his seat, resting one hand on his sore leg. "I don't suppose you'd like to tell us who that contact might be?"  
  
Horn cluck-clucked. "Good attempt, but this isn't a movie. The bad guy doesn't tell all his secrets before the end credits. Suffice it to say that I'm very interested in the extent and nature of your inquiry."  
  
There was a pause during which Michael took a long sip of his drink, swallowing the aged amber fluid with genuine enjoyment. "I was wondering why you wanted me," he said at last, touching his tongue to his lips. "Obviously, your man is not part of my section or you'd already have that information."  
  
"And know how close you were getting to discovering my involvement. Very discerning of you." John Horn leaned forward, tapping his thigh, his mouth thinning until it resembled a gash on his face. "You will tell me the state of your investigation, Mr. Coldsmith-Briggs, so that I can plug any holes in my security before either my identity or my plans are compromised."  
  
Michael grinned openly although his gaze was as cold as Hawke's. "You don't seriously believe that?"  
  
Horn nodded at the smugly smiling Anastasia Zarkov. "Oh, but I do. Just as I believe that the boy will bring me Airwolf. At best, he will be assisting my men with the machine on several missions. At worst, Airwolf will not be used against Muhallah's base before payment is made for the full cache of weapons." He waved expansively at the stiffly standing Hawke. "Ask the boy, Mr. Briggs. John Bradford Horn always gets what he wants."  
  
Hawke's lips parted in a derisive sneer. "What's first? Torture? More drugs? Or are you going to try Zarkov's brainwashing again?"  
  
Horn scratched his nose, returning the younger man's look with a calculating one of his own. "The beautiful Anastasia has requested the opportunity to work with you again immediately, but I'm on a bit of a schedule this time. It might be expedient for us both to consider a straight trade."  
  
Stringfellow snorted. "What could you possibly have to offer that would make me give up Airwolf and the lives you'd use her -- and me -- to take?"  
  
Horn placed his brandy on a small table by his chair and stood, brushing at the knife-edge creases in his trousers. "Rather than explaining, allow me to show you the goods of my exchange. Gentlemen?" Following his lead, the guards repositioned themselves, two of them gesturing at Hawke and Coldsmith-Briggs with the barrels of their machine pistols. After a moment, Michael also placed his glass down and stood, falling into step with Hawke, the two allowing the guards to usher them through several living chambers then down a single staircase toward the rear of the house. They traversed a long hall, finally entering a laboratory, peopled with a half-dozen white-coated scientist types who barely acknowledged their passage.  
  
"Looks like a biolab," Michael said conversationally, stopping halfway through the room to peek into a microscope.  
  
"Actually," the ex-KGB psychologist supplied helpfully, "it is a combination biolab and private hospital ward. This facility takes up the entire ground floor wing of this mansion."  
  
Michael relinquished the microscope at a prod in the back by one of the guards' pistols, continuing through a heavy steel door to a large chamber that must have defined the very rear of the building. It was spacious and, without windows, completely sealed. Banks of unfamiliar equipment and monitors lined two walls, the center occupied by a seven-foot long, vertical cylinder fed with three pipes and connected to a central computer. Bending over the main board stood a petite oriental woman in a labcoat, her slender fingers delicately adjusting some switches.  
  
"Everything ready, Lydia?" Horn greeted the woman brusquely the minute the trio and their accompanying guards had breasted the threshold.  
  
She looked up, almond shaped eyes flicking once over the group before dismissing them as of no consequence. "Everything is precisely as Dr. Zarkov directed, sir."  
  
Horn rubbed his hands together eagerly. "Excellent. Now, gentlemen, I must ask you again, will you surrender Airwolf to my possession?"  
  
The glacial look Hawke turned on the older man would have done credit to the Pleistocene age. "You know the answer to that, Horn. And if that thing is some new type of torture device...."  
  
Horn actually chuckled at that. "Nothing could be further from the truth, my boy. I'm offering you a trade, remember? Lydia." At his signal the woman pressed a button, and the metal cylinder began to tip slowly toward the horizontal. "Before I forget," Horn interjected when both prisoners stepped forward curiously, "I find it only fair to warn you, multiple security devices were installed to prevent your interfering with whatever happens. Defense can range from painful to fatal."  
  
Hawke shot him a wary look. "What is this?"  
  
Michael glanced from the cylinder to the equipment and feed pipes, blond brows bisected in a deep frown. "It looks like a cryo-suspension tube, although what its purpose might be I can't fathom."  
  
At a nod from Horn, the woman, Lydia, left her board to join the group. "It only resembles a cryo-tube," she explained in a bored voice. "The Yakeyama chamber contains not liquid nitrogen, but a highly oxygenated and completely sterile nutrient solution designed to promote healing of damaged tissues. It's experimental but has been found to be primarily useful for regenerating tissue in victims who've been badly burned."  
  
The cylinder had by now assumed an upright position, revealing a plate set into the metal. Through the thick glass a face could be seen, scarred but familiar enough to leach every trace of color out of Stringfellow Hawke's cheeks. "No, it ... can't ... be him."  
  
Horn smiled, exposing his teeth like a shark. "Oh, but it can. What do you say now, Stringfellow Hawke? Do you consider Dominic Santini a fair trade for Airwolf?"  
  
Hawke stared mesmerized at the distorted face in the tube, eyes wide and filled with stunned disbelief. It was Michael who answered, furious understanding flooding his cheeks with red. "You aren't looking for a trade," he accused with an insight garnered over twenty years of dealing with brutality and betrayal of this caliber. "This isn't about Airwolf -- it's about revenge."  
  
"I always said you were astute. What do you think, Stringfellow?" Horn asked silkily.  
  
Hawke's breath caught in his throat. "I--"  
  
Horn shook his head sadly. "You hesitated too long, Mr. Hawke. Had you been more amenable earlier I might have been willing to discuss the matter. I'm afraid you're going to have to live with the consequences now. Ah! Our friend is awake." Even as he spoke, Santini's brown eyes snapped open, the burn-twisted mouth describing an "O" of fear. From inside the tube came a barely audible sound of struggling, one hand coming up to scrabble at the glass pane, seeking desperate escape.  
  
"He can't breathe!" Hawke gasped, spinning on Horn. "Get him out of there!"  
  
The industrialist retreated involuntarily before the younger man's wild look to the safety afforded by the ring of guards, arctic eyes sparkling. "I told you it was too late for that."  
  
"Don't do this, Horn!" Michael charged, spreading both hands. "Zarkov?" But the woman only watched impassively, her calmness even more chilling than Horn's cruel glee.  
  
"Dom," Hawke breathed, face parchment white but determined. He disregarded the guns to dart to the cylindrical prison, spying a twist-handle in the front inset. "Don't worry, Dom, I--" His call degenerated into a pained scream the minute he touched the shiny metal. A sizzling sound emanated from the point of contact, and he fell backward, gaping dumbfounded at the seared skin on his palms.  
  
"A 'defense system,'" Michael growled, pulling the pilot to his feet. "Perhaps the automatic controls...?" He crossed to the main board, staring perplexed at the dozens of switches and gauges arrayed there. "Which one opens the tube without killing Dominic?"  
  
By all appearances the question would become moot in short order. Awareness had seeped into Dominic Santini's face, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. Brown eyes rolled up until only the whites showed, even as his hand left off scratching at the glass to claw his throat.  
  
Tearing his horrified gaze from the ghastly sight, Hawke shoved Michael violently aside, positioning himself in front of the main panel. "There's no time," he gasped, sounding as though he were choking himself. He splayed his fingers across the same switches that Lydia had pressed earlier. "We'll have to try every--"  
  
This time he didn't even manage a scream. Blue light outlined Hawke's slender body, rippling every muscle and stirring the brown hair. Michael, plying switches on the secondary board, was likewise caught in the high voltage backlash, his body bowed backwards until it looked as though it must break in half. Timed to appear in non-lethal pulses, the circuit cooled without warning, the sudden release dropping both men nervelessly to the floor.  
  
Horn lounged against the doorframe where he had a good view of the entire show. "I did warn you about unauthorized use," he remarked, obviously enjoying himself hugely.  
  
"G-got ta help Dom," Hawke choked, pushing the heavier man off his right leg. Where his burned hands contacted the white suit they left behind a bloody smear. Hawke seemed not to notice or didn't care; he pushed again, this time managing to roll free of the still twitching agent. "Stop it, Horn!" he begged, this time having to crawl back to what was fast becoming Dominic Santini's sepulcher. He faltered not at all before deliberately wrapping his fingers around the red-hot handle, managing to choke out, "I'll give you--" before that sizzling returned and the smell of burning flesh filled the air. Whatever he was about to offer choked off into another scream, agony again taking his breath although he didn't let go the handle. He held on, biting his lip and putting put all his weight into this last, desperate effort at freeing his friend.  
  
Meanwhile, Michael had regained his feet. He stood back, engineer's eye expertly scanning the cylinder urgently for any opening in its defenses, but the scenario had been carefully planned and there was not even a weapon to use to smash the thick glass faceplate. Although his hesitation lasted mere seconds it was long enough for there to be a dramatic change to be wrought in Dominic Santini. Brown eyes rapidly glazing over, the elderly pilot's face went lax, his jaw dropping open. Then the eyes closed and his head lolled forward; from all indications, he was no longer making an attempt at respiration, if that were even possible inside the fluid filled tube.  
  
Michael's own breath caught at the sight but he had no chance for more reaction than that for his attention diverted irresistibly toward a low, barely audible whimper from Hawke, who was still struggling with the front panel. Bracing himself, Michael seized the pilot's wrists, yanking his fingers loose from the boobytrapped steel. Hawke uttered a low moan of protest as they came free, his awareness fading long enough for Michael to drag him physically back and away. The both of them went down in a heap, Hawke flailing wildly and Michael carefully not letting go of him.  
  
"My revenge is indeed sweet," Horn uttered blissfully, without a shred of remorse for the suffering he was causing.  
  
Although the phrase was offered in conversational tones, neither man gave any indication of having heard him. "No," Hawke choked, tears on his cheeks, eyes as vacant as those of a wild animal. His struggles grew savage and only their lack of coordination allowed Michael to retain his grip at all. "Got 'ta help Dom," was repeated over and over in a smothered voice no one would have recognized as his own.  
  
By contrast, Michael's words were quiet. "I don't think you can help him, Hawke." A muscular man, Archangel locked both arms and one leg around his friend's body in a wrestling hold that might have held a sumo. He grunted when Hawke jammed an elbow into his ribs, only the virtue of a bad attack angle preventing those ribs from popping like rivets. "Stop it, Hawke," he forced through clenched teeth. "He's gone."  
  
Hawke shook his head frantically, his struggles not waning. Unbreakable hold or not, his youth, strength and sheer ferocity were beginning to loosen Michael's grip on him. "No! Get him out! Please...."  
  
Although hampered by their awkward position on the floor, Archangel nevertheless managed to shake him roughly, breaking through the frenzy, shouting, "It's too late!" He pulled the young man around until they could both see the seemingly lifeless body through the glass panel, adding more gently, "I am sorry."  
  
That at last seemed to sink in, for Hawke's face lost all expression; he went utterly still, slumping back against Michael's chest. His wide eyes fixed blankly on the horrible, immobile form of his friend, and there was a darkness in them that spoke of something less than sane. He took a deep breath, and Briggs slowly relaxed his hold.  
  
"Stringfellow," the agent began hesitantly, also shaken, keeping one hand on the other's shoulder.  
  
There was no reaction to his beckon. Hawke straightened away from the support without so much as a glance. He struggled to his knees and lifted his face toward the grinning John Horn.  
  
"I did give you a chance," the industrialist chortled, eyes gleaming with pleasure. "If Santini is dead, his blood remains on your hands."  
  
The room went utterly silent as Hawke continued to regard him steadily through those empty, soulless eyes. Ever so slowly, Horn's grin faded, his face twisting into what could only be defined as nervousness. He opened his mouth to say something else but had no chance for, with the speed of a jungle cat, Hawke launched himself from his kneeling position, the sheer unexpectedness of his attack actually carrying him past the guards before they could react. Zarkov was knocked to the side, a guttural noise escaping Hawke's clenched teeth as he impacted with the unprepared Horn, bringing the older man down under him. Powerful fingers wrapped around Horn's throat, and, blue eyes blazing ferally, Stringfellow Hawke began to squeeze.  
  
Recovering from their astonishment, two of the guards bracketed the enraged pilot, each raining an onslaught of blows and kicks that should have ended the fight then and there. It was to no avail -- Hawke was an automaton, impervious to pain and single minded in his deadly pursuit. The seared fingers continued to choke the life out of John Horn, sinking deep into his throat. It wasn't until the wiry Rombauer had joined the guards' endeavor that there was any measure of success; he brought the barrel of his gun down twice against Hawke's already bruised temple, breaking the deathgrip at once. Hawke uttered a little moan and slumped forward across Horn's chest to be summarily rolled off by one of the uniforms.  
  
Michael, although given no more warning than Horn's security men, was only a heartbeat slower than Hawke. Left with no option but to back his partner's play, he balanced his weight on his left foot, planting his right dead center on the nearest opponent's chest, following up with a beautiful left hook to the man's pugnacious jaw. The olive clad guard had not even hit the floor before Michael had pivoted on his next target. Unfortunately, these men were highly trained and carried the added advantage of superior numbers. Even as the Firm's Deputy Director began his second aggressive move, two more mercenaries were pouring into the room to join the fight. One, the massive redhead from the bar, lashed out with the side of his boot, catching Michael's left knee at the joint; another swung the flat handle of his assault rifle, grand slamming the agent in the diaphragm and knocking the wind out of him. A lightning fast crescent kick connected with Michael's face, and ended the fray. By this time, Hawke was slumped on the floor and the guards had retreated to a safe distance, bodies tense, weapons again held at ready.  
  
Rombauer stepped forward cautiously and offered a helping hand to the supine Horn, pulling him up. The industrialist rose unsteadily, rubbing his throat and making gasping noises for oxygen. There was no distress in his expression, however, only the satisfaction of a man whose plans have just come to fruition. "I told you revenge would be as sweet as acquiring Airwolf," he addressed Hawke in a raspy voice. "I was right." He gestured at the guards, who pulled both semiconscious men to their feet. "Take them back to their cell. Vengeance, like a fine wine, is best savored in private." 


	6. Chapter 6

196---  
  
"Uncle Dom? Wake up, Uncle Dom! Someone wants to talk to you."  
  
Dominic Santini woke with a start although not a tremor showed in his big frame. He cracked open one eye to stare at the generator of this shrill and less than welcome beckoning. Lounging on his spine and feet up on his desk, he was just on level with the large blue eyes that stared solemnly back. "Joanna Elouisa Santini," he growled, his use of her full name a warning. "It's ninety degrees outside and I've been working on that old Steerman since seven o'clock this morning."  
  
His niece, distinctly unruffled by his forbidding expression; continued to work her jaws on a piece of pink bubble gum. When Dom paused for a response, she calmly blew a bubble and waited him out.  
  
Santini, scowl deepening exponentially, was the first to crack. "You'd better have a very good reason for interrupting my nap, young lady. You've visited me often enough to know naps are special." He slapped his barrel chest, coughing slightly when he hit too hard. "Gotta recharge the old batteries, you know."  
  
"Oh. Recuperate. Check." Jo popped another bubble, an impish smirk dimpling her round cheeks. For a minute Santini couldn't decide whether to pinch them or swat her butt. Considering she was just shy of her ninth birthday it could go either way.  
  
"So, what did you want?" he prodded gruffly, refusing to be mollified by the fact that she was his favorite niece and he always enjoyed the rare visits her grandmother -- his sister-in-law -- permitted. "You've got grease on your dress," he added by way of revenge.  
  
He tapped her pink jumper and she looked down, her scowl matching his own. "Darn! I knew I should've stayed away from Billy Baker and his dumb ol' model airplane. He had machine oil all over the wings."  
  
Dom opened his other eye, lifting his head slightly until he could see her better. "Who is Billy Baker? Not Billy Joe Baker, Carlton's kid?" She nodded irritably. "I thought I told you--"  
  
"Someone's on the radio," she interrupted before he could swing into full disciplinarian mode. She was good at that, he reflected sourly. Perfect sense of timing.  
  
His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "This better not be another one of them rock and roll bands. I thought we discussed this before -- rock and roll is not proper for a little Italian girl to be listening to." He snorted. "The Mosquitos...."  
  
"The Beetles," she corrected calmly -- entirely too calmly for someone not even nine yet, in Dom's opinion. "And not that radio, t'other one."  
  
"Other?" He followed her grimy finger to the transceiver unit sitting in the far corner of the office next to the coffee pot. By straining his ears he could make out the faint crackle of an open channel. "Someone's on the radio?"  
  
"That's what I just said," Jo huffed, stamping one foot. "Aren't you going to answer it?"  
  
He debated. His leather desk chair was very comfortable and he really didn't want to be disturbed for something like a friendly pilot-to-pilot chat. Then again it could be a job, something his struggling air transport service needed badly. Jo was waiting expectantly, and he sighed and swung his feet to the floor. "Yeah, yeah, I'm going to answer it. Could mean money and I've got to keep little girls in chow, don't I?" He poked Jo in her pudgy little tummy in passing, and she giggled, managing to turn it into a ladylike huff before joining him at the radio. "WCSA," he hailed, adjusting a few dials to clean up the static. "Come back."  
  
"Uncle-Uncle Dom?" It was a youthful voice that answered, a boy's, with the roughness of tone that bespoke an ongoing deepening to a man's timbres.  
  
Even across a hundred miles of airwave the voice was familiar. "Saint John?" he hazarded, naming his oldest friend's fourteen year old son. "Izzat you?"  
  
"Uncle Dom!" The answer was more wail than reply. "Uncle Dom, you've got to come! You've got to!"  
  
Jo touched his shoulder nervously, and Dom spared her a smile although his full attention was focussed on the mike. There was something in the boy's voice that went beyond upset. He interrupted the babble with as soothing a tone as he could manage. "Slow down, son, and tell me what's wrong."  
  
There was an audible gulp from the other end of the wire, and when the boy's voice resumed there was a fine edge of control. Hysteria had never been one of Saint John Hawke's propensities. "It's-it's Mom and Dad," he began again, speaking slowly. "I think they're ..." He mumbled something, repeating at Dom's urging, "... dead."  
  
Whatever Dom might have been expecting, it wasn't that. "Dead?" he echoed hollowly, feeling Jo's little fingers dig deeper into the blue cotton of his coverall. Alan and Carmella Hawke -- dead? Dom's mind reeled even as he snapped out, "Saint John, tell me what happened."  
  
There was another noise on the line, this one sounding suspiciously like a sniff. "We were all out in the boat," he went on as though giving a book report. "Me, Mom, Dad and String."  
  
"Good," Dom praised him, proud of the fiber the boy was showing. You could always count on Saint John to keep his head in a crisis. "Go on."  
  
"We were all supposed to be fishing but Mom and Dad were fighting again, like they do, you know? Mom said she didn't want us spending the holidays with Dad after the divorce, and String and I were just kind of sitting there...."  
  
"Never mind that part now, kid," Dominic interrupted the stumbling monologue before the boy could go too far. He reached up to encase Jo's hand in his own, drawing strength from her surprisingly firm grip. The pending divorce of two of his oldest friends was a disturbing point. It was especially hard on Saint John and young Stringfellow, the Hawke's second son. "Tell me what happened to your parents."  
  
"D'ya think String killed them?" Jo asked sotto voce.  
  
Surprised away from the mike, Dom turned to meet her wide eyes. "Of course String didn't kill them," he snapped. "Hush." The line crackle reclaimed his attention. "Go ahead, Saint John."  
  
"We were out in the middle of the lake," the boy went on even more deadly quiet. "Mom and Dad started fighting and Dad got mad and started the motor up instead of using the oars. The ... the motor ... it ... exploded."  
  
"Oh, my--" Dom breathed, feeling his heart leap into his throat.  
  
"The boat went down." The boy's throat also caught over another sob and it was several seconds before he could continue, resuming in that same deadpan voice. "I grabbed one of the oars but ... but I couldn't see Mom and Dad!"  
  
"Saint John," Dom spoke quietly again, his gruff voice penetrating the incipient hysteria he heard. The boy was only fourteen, after all. "What about String? Did he ... did he go down, too?" He mentally pictured Alan's younger son, a quiet, small boy with a shy smile, unable to contemplate the child gone as well. "C'mon, kid, I need you to tell me."  
  
That worked. Saint John calmed again. "No, he's all right. At least ... he's alive."  
  
"What do you mean, at least?" Jo demanded over Dom's shoulder, startling him badly. He'd forgotten she was there.  
  
Saint John stopped, apparently surprised by the new voice. "He went down," he said at last, "but he came up and I ... made him hold onto the oar...."  
  
"You got him back to shore?" Dom asked, quelling an impatient Jo with a look.  
  
"Got us both back," Saint John replied slowly. "But the water was cold ... I couldn't find Mom...."  
  
In an impulsive move, Dom swept Jo into his lap, holding her tightly. "You did good, Saint John. Real good. Are either of you hurt?"  
  
"String has some burns on his arm," the boy replied. "And a bump on the head but ... he won't stop shaking." From the quiver entering his voice it was apparent that was true for them both. "And...."  
  
"And what?" Dom prodded, realizing the boy was fast reaching his limits.  
  
"He won't talk to me!" This was blurted out so fast it was almost a single word. "He just sits there and looks at me. I don't know what to do! Uncle Dom, please...!"  
  
Please what? Help me? Bring back my Mom and Dad? Help my brother? Make it all go away?  
  
"Hang on, kid," Dom returned easily, hugging poor Jo so tight she squawked she couldn't breathe. "I'm on my way. Until I get there, you get your brother and yourself into some dry clothes before you catch your d-- catch'a cold." He stopped, a rapid mental calculation estimating travel time to the cabin at fifty minutes even at full throttle. Even then he'd be there long before the authorities could arrive, and Dom didn't feel like delaying his departure with long explanations better made airborne anyway. Fifty minutes was a long time to leave two traumatized little boys alone, but it couldn't be helped.  
  
No, not alone -- they still had each other. "If you want to," he went on more gently, "you can help your little brother until I get there."  
  
"How?"  
  
The question was so pathetically hopeful that Dom nodded with vague satisfaction, knowing his instincts were taking him in the correct direction. "Sounds like he's in shock," the man said, answering a look from Jo with a nod. "Keep him warm and quiet. The best way to do that is to just hold him for a while ... if he'll let you," he amended, recalling the youngest boy's intensely independent nature.  
  
"I'll take care of String." The youthful voice grew strong again now that Saint John was finding a focus outside of himself. He'd always been fiercely protective of his younger brother, and Dom was counting on that nature kicking in now. "Just ... hurry, okay?" Saint John finished, sounding for a moment very young himself.  
  
"On my way." Santini snapped the radio off. Despite his need to hurry, he sat hugging Jo to him for a long time before heading for his helicopter.  
  
*** 


	7. Chapter 7

John Bradford Horn, once-billionaire and present neo-machiavellian orchestrator of political upheaval, was through the elevator doors before they'd fully opened, long legs eating up the length of plush carpet in a light stride. His skin, as fair as his daughter's, was suffused with scarlet, his complexion having always been his one weak point in an otherwise imperturbable exterior. Today, uncontrolled, it betrayed his elation every bit as much as his glittering, sky blue eyes and the merry little tune he whistled through his teeth.  
  
He stopped in front of the second suite on the left of the wide corridor, and took a deep breath, visibly composing himself before giving the door a sharp rap. "Angelica?" There was a scuffling sound audible through the thick wood but nothing more. He rapped again, harder this time. "Angelica, are you in there?  
  
This time there was no sound at all. Horn frowned slightly and felt into his back pocket for a small set of master keys, selecting one and inserting it in the deceptively old-fashioned looking lock. It turned easily and the door clicked open. The room was slightly dim, lit only by a single lamp in the corner of the bedroom, but bright enough to see clearly the heavy Mediterranean style furniture and the plush, feminine ruffles decorating the sitting room beyond. "Angelica, are you dressed?" the weapons vender asked, sticking his head around the jamb.  
  
A lithe form swathed in a filmy white negligee uncurled from the bed. Angelica Horn rose slowly to her feet, loose blonde hair falling across her face and plastering itself across her wet cheeks. She palmed it back, uncovering swollen eyes underscored by black circles of smeared mascara, and a red nose. "What do you want?" she asked hoarsely.  
  
Horn crossed the room, taking her by both shoulders. "Tears, Daughter?" he asked, forced sympathy at odds with the continued happiness in his face. "No tears! Not on the day of my long awaited victory!"  
  
She jerked backward, freeing herself from his grip. "I suppose it was everything you expected it to be," she snapped, retreating in the direction of the heavily curtained window. "Was there enough suffering to satisfy you?"  
  
If he even heard the venom in her voice there was no visible effect. He spread both hands palms up, his face raised ceilingward as though seeing a supernatural revelation. "You should have been there, Daughter! Hawke's reaction to Santini's 'death' was every bit as delicious as I'd pictured in my dreams! Every past failure, every humiliation, dealt out to me by that young thorn in my side, was adequately repaid in one all too swift master stroke!"  
  
Expensive white silk ballooned out behind her as the woman spun away from the window. "You killed String's friend?" she gasped, wide blue eyes fixing him with a horrified look. "I thought.... I mean, I knew...."  
  
Horn chuckled, clapping his hands together in glee. "Not his friend, my love, his father! Well, foster father, but why quibble over semantics? And he's not precisely dead."  
  
The unmasked mischief in his face brought her a step closer. "What do you mean, he's not 'precisely' dead? What is the point of all this?"  
  
"I've tried to explain this to you several times, Angelica, but you always refused to listen." He shook his head chidingly. "Have you changed your mind?"  
  
"I still refuse to be a part of this," she spat back, wiping at her eyes with one hand. "But I want to know. What have you done?"  
  
Horn took the girl's wrist. "What I've done," he began, pulling her down until they were both seated on the edge of the bed, "is to make Mr. Stringfellow Hawke believe that he's just seen his foster father, Dominic Santini, die due to his own non-cooperation. Or should I say, die again. I do recall telling you that Hawke and his friends were led to believe that Santini died in that helicopter explosion three months ago."  
  
"An explosion you arranged, I suppose?" the woman asked, ducking her head.  
  
Thin lips parted in a cruel smile. "While simultaneously manipulating certain forces within the Department of National Security to have Archangel transferred to Hong Kong. My plan was to kill Santini and leave Hawke isolated, thus making him a more malleable target for another little trade I had in mind involving an operation in Burma. Without Archangel he would have absolutely no support within the Firm; without Santini, he'd be emotionally vulnerable to any offer I might make." Light brows drew together in a frown. "My plan should have been foolproof."  
  
Angelica Horn drew herself up, donning a scornful smile. "Don't blame yourself, Father. How could you possibly know that old man would survive an explosion like that?"  
  
Ignoring the mockery or perhaps not hearing it, Horn nodded agreement. "Or that Hawke's older brother and his team would become complications. Unforeseen circumstances, you understand. Fortunately, my agent inside the Firm was on top of the situation and contacted me immediately. With his assistance it was child's play to whisk Santini -- still my most valuable weapon -- out of the hospital and cover his disappearance by bribing the funeral director into a substitution of bodies. The funeral director had an ... uh, unfortunate accident soon afterward. Pity."  
  
"Pity," the woman mimicked.  
  
That earned her a scowl. "Why, Angelica, I sense a lack of enthusiasm on your part. Can't you see the beauty in my plans? By forethought I've procured a weapon even the indomitable Stringfellow Hawke can't fight. He will have to obey my every command, and I've had the added pleasure of making him suffer for past humiliations. Little did he realize that what he witnessed was no more than the inevitable stress reaction caused by rousing the patient from induced coma." He opened his right arm wide, encompassing the room and by extension the entire world. "It was a triumph of sheer intelligence over foolhardy stubbornness. Can't you find it in you to relish this as much as I?"  
  
Obviously not, for Angelica again ducked her head, allowing her long platinum hair to shield her expression. "Was it really worth it?" she asked plaintively. "Was revenge worth making a good man suffer like that?"  
  
He snorted, pulling her hand closer and chaffing it in both his own, white teeth bared in a grin. "Suffer he did, too. I've allowed Hawke to believe Santini was dead for three months and played my final stroke for revenge against him tonight." She made to draw away again and Horn tightened his grip. "I realize you don't approve of my methods, Daughter, but what's done is done. Cheap revenge is usually unworthy of a man of my stature, but it's out of my system now and we may progress to the practical -- that means acquiring Airwolf and the means to use her."  
  
"Airwolf." Angelica's voice lowered, growing even sadder. "Everything goes back to one helicopter."  
  
"One absolutely unique weapon," the man corrected, "and the only man presently available who can fly her for me. Had Santini been less critically injured we might have been able to force the information from him." He made a throw-away gesture. "However, he would never survive the procedure and I don't believe in wasting trump cards unnecessarily. That brings us back to Stringfellow Hawke."  
  
Slender shoulders stiffened then came back, bringing her head up. Angelica turned anguished eyes on the man, free hand raising in supplication. "Father, you don't have to do this. It's true we don't have the money we once did, but there's more than enough for us to live comfortably the rest of our lives. Isn't that enough? Can't that be enough for us?"  
  
Horn's fair skin flushed again, this time with anger. "For what purpose? So that we can be fugitives for the rest of our lives? False names, disguises, smoke screens.... Constantly on the move from country to country, always looking over our shoulders for Interpol? Is that the type of life what's left of my money will buy us?"  
  
"It could be enough!"  
  
"No." Horn's handsome features hardened. "I will not live my life like that. As Aristotle once said, 'Happiness seems to require a modicum of external prosperity,' and I wish to be very happy indeed. If it will make you rest any easier, I've already ordered the Yakeyama tube opened and Santini released. I shall be communicating with Hawke very soon. I'll give him a fair opportunity to cooperate. You'll see."  
  
"And if he won't?" She stared wildly at Horn's adamant expression, eyes brimming again. "Don't you see what you're doing to us? What you're doing to me? How can I live knowing what you've done? I...." She choked off, then continued hoarsely, "I can't live knowing what you've done."  
  
Horn took both her hands in his own, turning until they were face to face. "What I'm doing is for us both. I want you to have a safe, secure home -- a place where you can live your life without hiding, and can marry and raise children."  
  
She snatched back her hands and clasped them tightly in her lap. "You're not doing this for me. You're doing this to hurt String."  
  
He looked mildly chagrined at having been discovered so easily, then shrugged. "I'm not used to losing, Angelica. All of what I am as a man is predicated upon my winning. Always. For eighteen months I've striven to make Stringfellow Hawke pay for shaming me, and now I've succeeded. Besides, Airwolf will put me back in the game of international politics, give us both a haven to work from and reestablish my personal fortune."  
  
"We don't have to--"  
  
A raised hand cut off the choked words before they could be finished. "No, Daughter. To accomplish all this, Stringfellow Hawke must be broken to my will in whatever form is necessary. I will not be swayed." He stared at the lamp burning several yards away, refusing to face the huddled woman at his side, avoiding the stunned lost look that entered her eyes at his words. "You're going to have to trust me to do what's necessary, my daughter. You'll understand it all one day. I know you will."  
  
Angelica swallowed and wiped her eyes on the hem of her silk peignoir. Rather than continued distress, a curious calmness smoothed her features, leaving behind a kind of peace. "I understand doing what is necessary, Father. I suppose that makes everything easier, somehow."  
  
Reading the reaction as acceptance, Horn again turned toward her. He took his daughter into his arms, hugging her tight, smiling when she returned the hug. "That's my girl. I knew I could count on you!" His face buried in her hair, Horn never saw the bleakness enter her blue eyes nor the new determination that transmuted her pretty features to stone.  
  
*** 


	8. Chapter 8

The olive-uniformed guards grabbed Hawke and Archangel by the arms, hauling them roughly back into the laboratory then through a short corridor off to the right. Archangel was aware of a blur of lights and color passing as a kaleidoscope, disorientating and nauseating at once. There was a buzz -- an electronic lock disengaging -- and a panel slid open in one wall. The prisoners were dragged inside and deposited unceremoniously on a tiled floor, then footsteps retreated back to the hall. Almost as a gesture of contempt, Rombauer threw the half-darkened glasses inside; miraculously unbroken by the kick to his face, they landed on Michael's chest before hitting the floor with a clatter. The guards withdrew and the door slid shut behind them with a final little click.  
  
Winded, Michael Coldsmith-Briggs remained where he'd fallen for several minutes, doubled up to relieve the pressure on his cramping abdomen. He took a deep breath, choking on the blood streaming from his nose down his throat. He was uncertain he could spare the energy it would cost him to roll onto his side, but as his only alternative was asphyxiation he made the attempt, barely managing the feat and not without generating a whole new arena of suffering in the rest of his body.  
  
The pain was all consuming for several minutes, but Michael embraced it as a diversion, using it to banish the too-vivid scene of the atrocity he'd just witnessed. Dominic Santini could not have been considered a friend -- there were too many years of conflict between them, with Airwolf and even Hawke himself as the center of their dissention. Santini had not been shy about expressing his disapproval of the Firm, espionage in general, and Michael Briggs in particular, nor had he held back a single shot when facing Michael down in Hawke's behalf. But the old man's loyalty had proved him worthy of respect, and he'd always sided with Michael when he'd been needed most. Dominic hadn't deserved to die that way. And Hawke hadn't deserved to be hurt again. Not like that.  
  
Everything went dim for a while but he concentrated hard, forcing his battered diaphragm to draw in enough oxygen to clear his head. In ... out ... in ... using the mere act of respiration as a focus to clear his mind. The pain was narrowing now, enough for him to pinpoint specific sources, most notably his head, stomach and left knee. He groaned but managed to bring up one hand to probe his face gingerly. Just as he thought -- broken nose. Not that it was the first time a plastic surgeon had been needed to restore his nose to perfection, but he didn't enjoy those sessions any more for their frequency. And he was going to have a black eye on top of it -- even as the flow slowed from his nostrils he could feel it begin to pool under his skin. Fortunately, it was on the left side of his face where the patch would cover most of the damage; his vision, at least, would remain unimpaired.  
  
He moved his torso cautiously, relieved that the expected stab of bone grinding against bone did not come, nor could he feel that deep seated ache that in the past had heralded internal injuries. He counted that as a blessing. The guards had enjoyed their work -- those had not been love taps they'd delivered. Only his trained reflexes had allowed him to roll with the blows, preventing more serious injury than he'd sustained.  
  
He rubbed his stomach ruefully, wishing he'd continued that weight lifting regimen he'd begun when he was twenty-one and more vain about his appearance. His muscles were not as solid as they'd been in his youth, but were not flabby either; they'd absorbed what he hadn't been able to avoid, protecting his organs from the worst of the impact. The worst, he told himself, not all. I'm going to sport bruises for weeks. Sit-ups are definitely in my future from now on. As for his knee.... That pain was a long time companion. He could only hope they hadn't damaged it beyond repair this time.  
  
It took nearly five full minutes for his breathing to steady out and his head to clear; only then did he unfurl both arms and lift his head. "So much for an easy escape," he croaked, using his free hand to snatch up his glasses and perch them very cautiously on the bridge of his nose. I'd've really been annoyed if I'd lost them, he thought with sour humor. As if annoyed is all I'm going to have to worry about ... all poor Dominic had to worry about. Or Hawke.  
  
Equilibrium finally reestablishing itself, he jacked himself up on one elbow, seeking the whereabouts of his companion, not that there was much area to search. Only a few feet from Briggs' left leg, Hawke lay sprawled on his back, eyes closed, face pale save for the purpling marks decorating the high cheekbones and jaw. Scarlet spattered his face and sweater, originating from another bruise to the right of one eye, and trickling backward to disappear into his light brown hair. Semi-conscious, he twitched weakly, obviously unable to do more.  
  
He took a pretty bad beating, too, Michael thought with a degree of worry that surprised even him. Does Horn want an employee or a corpse? Maybe it was revenge he was after all along. His lips twisted. If so, he certainly got what he wanted. In spades.  
  
Grunting with the effort, Michael dragged himself toward the supine form, his left leg from hip to ankle an aching, useless weight, the renewed pain in his chest warning him that maybe he had broken a rib or two, after all. He ignored it all, blocking out his own pain to take Hawke's smooth chin in his palm and tilt the younger man's face towards him, frowning when he saw a second swelling along one side of his jaw and the extent of the damage near his temple. His skin was a little cold, too -- incipient shock, perhaps. Sapphire was barely visible through the slitted lids, and Michael could sense the bleary scrutiny he was receiving in return. "Lie still," he told the pilot in what he hoped was a reassuring tone. "Let me see how badly you're injured before you try to move."  
  
Surprisingly, Hawke obeyed the command, which worried Michael even further. Just how badly was he hurt, anyway? He released Hawke's chin and ran his fingers under the sweater and over the pilot's ribs, not liking the give he encountered on two of them, although thankfully he couldn't feel any rough edges. Cracked, maybe just more bruising. Hawke gave a choked sound at the touch, very much like a whimper, and brought a weak arm across his midsection as protest. Michael caught his wrist in a warning grip. "Let me finish," he ordered. He stopped then, remembering the grisly sizzling sound back in Horn's so-called lab, and turned Hawke's hand over, catching his breath at the sight of the charring across the palm. From what he could see, the burns had blistered almost instantly, the blisters giving way to the raw, bloody flesh beneath. A quick check showed the same to be true with the young man's other hand. Infection was certain, and Michael knew from past experience of his own that such wounds were agonizing in the extreme. Shock and concussion might be the least of their worries.  
  
He next lifted the white sweater and t-shirt, pursing his lips at the marks decorating the lean abdomen. The guards had been a little more enthusiastic here than they had been with him, possibly because the frenzied pilot had been harder to subdue, more likely because Horn employed sadists who took pleasure in beating helpless men. Whatever the reason, Hawke was definitely concussed and might be bleeding internally; he couldn't tell. They both needed medical attention at any rate ... not that Michael foresaw a doctor in their immediate future. Whatever Horn had in store for them, this casual brutality was only a prelude. Much worse was yet to come.  
  
Hawke's breathing was ragged but starting to even out a bit and, leaving a restraining hand lightly on his companion's shoulder, Briggs next scanned his surroundings. They were lying in a featureless white-tiled room devoid of windows or furniture save for one straight-backed wooden chair hardly designed for the comfort of 'guests.' There were no windows; the only visible entrance was the sliding door that fit snugly into the wall. By focusing all of his faculties he could make out the audible hum of voltage being channelled in that direction -- an electronic lock. Dimly he noted that, to Hawke with his superior hearing, it must be loud as a beehive ... provided he could hear anything beyond the echo of fists beating vainly against a metal sarcophagus. That, Michael could still hear all too clearly.  
  
As if triggered by these wanderings, Hawke let out a shallow gasp and jerked up onto one arm, returning memory overcoming the undoubted pain of the beating he'd taken. Concussion meant nausea and this time was no exception. The pale skin went ashen, and Hawke gagged, his stomach, empty since the night before, trying its best to bring up what wasn't there. Michael, still too weak himself to be of any assistance, could only hold the man's head off the floor, and hope those probably-cracked, maybe-broken ribs didn't give.  
  
It took a long time for the heaving to ease, leaving Hawke lying helplessly, trying to breathe shallowly and not succeeding. Briggs could imagine the kind of distress he was in, being nauseated on top of the beating; he felt that way himself. Finally, the blue eyes opened wide, regarding the far off ceiling with a blank stare.  
  
Michael shifted until he was in the other's line of sight. "Hawke," he called softly, hesitantly touching the other's shoulder. When there was no immediate reaction to his beckon, Michael tightened his grip, giving the pilot a little shake. "Hawke, can you hear me? Stringfellow?" He thought a moment, then changed his tone, allowing it to grow gruffer, choosing words he'd once overheard an aging, overweight Italian use in the past. "String, don't do this to yourself, kid."  
  
The reaction to that familiar voice came as expected. Hawke's breath caught in his throat, the name, "Dom...." emerging as a low sob.  
  
Relieved at having broken through the numbed shock, Michael reassumed his own voice, despairing of finding anything to say that would help but compelled to try anyway. "Stringfellow, I'm sorry."  
  
Hawke lifted himself slightly onto his elbow, not looking at Archangel but in his general direction. "He was alive, Michael," he managed in a low voice. "All this time Dom was alive and I didn't look for him. I didn't.... I didn't know...."  
  
"You couldn't have known," Michael interrupted the stumbling words; more guilt was one thing Hawke didn't need to carry around. "There wasn't anything you could have done. Believe that."  
  
"But I should have...." Hawke trailed off, one hand coming up to cover his face. He didn't need to finish the sentence; Briggs heard the unspoken words as plainly as if they'd been aloud. I should have traded them Airwolf for Dom.  
  
Michael's gaze went cold, a frozen lump settling in the pit of his gut. "Don't even think about it," he snapped, giving the younger man a shake; he stopped at the short hiss of pain this elicited, and gentled his hold, offering support rather than reproach. He leaned closer, continuing in an intense voice, "If Horn gets Airwolf, you can write off that NATO installation, and that means Muhallah ends up with enough weapons to carry on their terrorist attacks for years. Think about it, not just soldiers but women and children. And that's just for a start!"  
  
Hawke dropped his hand from his face, eyes brimming and containing a curious appeal, for what Michael didn't understand. Mercy? Forgiveness? A negation of the nightmare? "But Dom," he whispered.  
  
Michael regarded his friend pityingly, grimacing at the anguish that radiated from him in waves. Over five years close association and many more spent cultivating the pilot into Firm material, Michael had seen Hawke upset before -- worried, angry, frantic -- the emotions slipping past the expressionless facade he wore like a second suit of clothes. This young man's core was steel, his passions so tightly channeled that they only added to his strength and determination, the duality combining to form this superb living weapon. Michael Briggs knew this -- understood the pilot's assets and weaknesses well -- and used them freely for his own purposes and the good of the country he served. Yet for all that, there wasn't one single instant that Michael had not been aware of the deep, soul eroding sorrow barely hidden behind those stony blue eyes, the aching loss that had stolen all joy from his heart and the smile from his lips.  
  
"Listen, Hawke, I...." Michael trailed off, his single eye narrowing. He racked his astute mind for the proper line to take, carefully culling from the thousand stock declarations he could use so effectively. Michael's job and life often depended on his highly developed understanding of the human mind -- more intellectual than empathic and all the more effective because of it. Being able to read and manipulate emotions was Briggs' stock in trade, and this young man, for all the protective barriers he maintained, was an unsuspecting and all-too-frequent pawn in the larger games Michael played. No, not pawn -- knight. White knight. Honest, mercurial, and excruciatingly sensitive, the carefully submerged passions were the instruments Michael Coldsmith-Briggs played to wield the deadly, combat- ready soldier that was Stringfellow Hawke.  
  
The phrases came to him even then. He could tell the younger man that his country needed him, that lives depended on him, that he, Michael, would die without his help ... any one of which would tap into the excessive guilt and responsibility that nourished themselves behind that mask. He could have his weapon even yet. He parted his lips ... then made the mistake of looking into those haunted blue eyes, and closed his mouth with a snap, self-disgust rising like bile in his throat. He couldn't do it. Not now -- not in the face of that much sheer misery. He ran a hand through his thick blond hair, cursing himself for the heart he'd never been able to successfully exorcize. Although he risked thousands of lives with the delay, he just couldn't bring himself to use a friend like this. ... Not yet.  
  
Twenty-five years experience in what Hawke had once termed the "sewer" of espionage work had formed their own protective barriers around Briggs' emotions -- barriers that were routinely shredded these days. "You're objective or you're dead," was a truism he embraced unequivocally ... especially since the betrayal of his beautiful ex-lover, Maria. That philosophy had been applied to his working relationship with Stringfellow Hawke with a vengeance, social contact being kept to a bare minimum although without the coolness that characterized most of his professional relationships. At least, not on Michael's behalf. On Hawke's.... Well, Michael didn't consider fear of loss to be quite the same thing as a personal rejection.  
  
This did permit a comfortably delusional status quo, but when quizzed by a curious Marella as to why he allowed the pilot to throw his weight around as he did, Michael had stated that it didn't matter -- he could 'persuade' Hawke's obedience better by giving him his head than by brute force and far more fully than the younger man must ever be allowed to suspect. Unstated and unacknowledged was the fact that there was something about the pilot that had touched him, reaching a section of his heart that he'd thought safely anesthetized. As a result, the carefully maintained stiffness between them had dwindled steadily over the past two years, thinning to what each might consider dangerously familiar levels.  
  
Complicating things, even such a Company man as the Deputy Director of Operations for the Department of National Security, a.k.a., the Firm, was not totally immune to the degree of desperate grief the young man carried, nor could he ever forget that Hawke had saved his life several times over, most notably during the Fortune Teller incident, and again by pulling Michael out of East Germany despite having been injured himself in a stunt plane crash only the day before. My own people hung me out to dry both times, he reflected bitingly. Over the course of their association, Stringfellow Hawke's code of honor had reacted to Michael's to even evoke a type of reluctant friendship little though either would admit it, withstanding diametrically opposing points of view and based on a two-way trust that had been often shaken but never broken. Privately, Michael considered their rapport a liability, a strength, and a compliment, for Hawke offered trust rarely and only to those who met his high standards.  
  
I had a brother once, too.  
  
Michael scowled fiercely. Why had that thought intruded itself at this particular time? Stringfellow Hawke was nothing like Gary had been. Oh, on a few superficial levels, perhaps -- like Hawke, Gary had been born fair and slender, with an irritating degree of bullheaded stubbornness that seemed specially designed to get under Michael's skin. Beyond that, there was little that could be called up by way of similarity, and this was one comparison Michael had been extremely careful about not making in the past. So why now was Michael looking at Stringfellow Hawke and thinking about his brother, Gary, now lost to him for more than two decades?  
  
Maybe because if it had been me lost for all those years like Saint John was, Gary wouldn't have given up on me, either. Maybe because we grieved our dead parents together, too. Maybe because of the way I still miss him after all this time. Maybe....  
  
Despite his efforts, the emotional analogy to Gary Coldsmith-Briggs remained, the friendship he and Hawke shrilly denied, chipping at the carefully constructed detachment Michael had always maintained ... Needed! -- as Horn, or more likely, Zarkov, must have known it would, else why lock them together when it was common practice to isolate brainwashing subjects? Because they're studying us for reaction, intuition replied promptly. Michael had to admit the experiment was revealing -- he found he didn't like the idea of Hawke being mistreated again any more than he would have liked to see Gary hurt. He liked the fact that he cared at all even less. This was going to complicate matters badly. Blast!  
  
He held his sleeve to his now barely bleeding nose, using the cover to study the huddled figure of his companion, striving to reinforce his intentions by peering past both facade and sorrow to the battle-tempered, combat soldier who was easily one of the most dangerous men Michael had ever met. He bit his lip, dismayed when all he could find instead was the crushed spirit of a grief stricken and vulnerable boy who had lived far too long in the shadow of loss. Shocked by the discovery and moved despite himself, Michael faltered, then surrendered to his first instinct and slid an arm around the young man, ignoring the blood that still seeped from Hawke's temple to further stain his once-white jacket. "It wasn't your fault," he murmured. "And you don't have to hold on, on my account. Let out the hurt, Stringfellow," he invited quietly, "so we can move on to survival."  
  
The unexpected kindness was more than Hawke's already shredded composure could withstand. He shivered violently, new tears squeezing from between his tightly closed lids, and Michael tightened his hold, pulling the younger man closer. The hand that smoothed the disordered brown hair was gentle, Briggs' voice soothing and filled with compassion, and Hawke responded without volition as he had with only two other people in his life, by letting his control fade and the grief take him away.  
  
Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III was a man with a heart, but he was above all -- by both training and nature -- a professional. So even as he offered what scant comfort was his to give in his touch, never far from his thoughts was the understanding that, should he have any hope of getting out of this situation in one piece, as well as preserve Airwolf and the lives she could wipe out of existence, he would need Stringfellow Hawke in control. This odd combination of friendship and practicality kicked his shrewd mind into gear on several levels. Unseen by the man he held, he compressed his lips, a decision made even before the rationale fully evolved. Whatever happened, Horn was not about to let them escape; it was even possible that, if Santini wasn't truly dead, Horn would continue to use Hawke's foster father against him in some way. And why subject the boy to more pain when anger would serve them both better? He knew the young man's anger as a fearsome force -- a firestorm that swept opponents away on a nova blast, possibly even a protection against the mental assault that was sure to come. Their lives may be forfeit -- Michael conceded that -- had accepted the possibilities of death long before. But perhaps everything need not be lost. Airwolf could still be safeguarded -- Airwolf and the lives that she could take should Horn gain control of the unstoppable gunship.  
  
These thoughts flashed through one corner of Michael's mind, providing a welcome distraction from the sheer pain of the man in his arms. Hawke wept violently, unheeding and uncaring of who held him, blindly seeking some solace in the human contact he'd been denied most of his life. Michael didn't mind. For this moment alone he could permit sentiment to crowd out the pragmatic in his treacherous human heart, and believe himself more man than spy.  
  
It was a long time later that Stringfellow Hawke's crying slowed, the fierce independence that comprised so much of his personality creeping slowly back. With it came the reserve that no one had been able to penetrate except Saint John Hawke, Gabrielle Adamure, and Dominic Santini himself. Eventually the golden-brown head rose, damp blue eyes regarding Michael blankly. They stared at each other for long seconds, then Hawke seemed to suddenly become aware that Michael was still holding him. His already flushed cheeks grew a touch redder and he pulled back self- consciously. "I'm sorry," he muttered, swiping his wet face on his sleeve.  
  
Sensing the withdraw, Michael unlocked his arms from around the younger man's chest and back, although maintaining contact by leaving one hand on his shoulder. Normally he would have protected both their prides with an offhand comment, the pseudo-drollery of men who have exposed too much of their hearts. Normally, perhaps. But now he allowed the sympathy he felt to show through; the time for pretense would come all too soon enough. "Don't be sorry for caring, Hawke, or for grieving. I've done enough of both in my lifetime to understand."  
  
But Hawke only shook his head, denying the grace he'd only a moment before clung to. "Dom's greatest fear was being confined in a small space like that. He was buried in a hole in North Korea. That's how they killed him -- his version of hell."  
  
A horrible death indeed -- as bad for the one left behind, perhaps. "I know how much he meant to you," Michael said quietly. He was obliged to swallow heavily before he could add, "Dominic was a good man. He loved you very much." The words were trite in his own ears but all he had to offer.  
  
"He wasn't just my friend. Dom's been the only father I had since I was about ten. Saint John's too. Without him...." His voice faltered again, and he stopped, staring abstractedly at the blood stains on Michael's jacket. "No one else wanted us. Without him, they would've separated us -- put us in an orphanage. And then when Saint John was gone...." He gulped, shivering again. "He didn't deserve to go out like that. They have to pay, Michael. They're going to die for what they did."  
  
"They'll pay," the man called Archangel swore with absolute conviction, and no one who heard him would have doubted but that this was so. One way or the other, he'd see to that ... if he survived.  
  
"No." Hawke clenched one burned fist and bowed his head again. "I have to do it. It was my fault they.... My fault."  
  
"It wasn't your fault," the older man repeated, knowing he wasn't getting through but needing to try anyway. No more guilt, Stringfellow.  
  
"Does it matter?" Blue eyes dully searched Michael's, the misery reflected there making the agent tighten his grip until his fingers sank into the lean muscles in what must have been a painful grip. "Dom's dead. They k- killed him."  
  
"And they're about to kill us," Michael snapped back, regretting the phrase as soon as it was uttered, knowing it would drop a barrier between them.  
  
With a muttered oath Stringfellow Hawke jerked himself free. He backed painfully to the wall, cradling both hands to his chest, turning his face away. "If only...."  
  
Again Michael heard the wistful note and his blood ran cold. Every man has a breaking point, he thought grimly, and Horn found Hawke's. Dominic or his brother -- and thank goodness Saint John isn't here right now! Besides, he thought fatalistically, we're probably all dead anyway -- time to salvage what we can out of this.  
  
He hiked himself to a more commanding height onto his right knee, his redamaged left one sending up flaming skyrockets in protest. He ignored it with the ease of long familiarity and gripped Hawke's no-longer-pristine- white sweater, turning the younger man a bit toward him. "Listen to me," he ordered grimly. "Hawke?" He waited until the blue eyes focused on him, allowing his own gaze to harden and actually happy to see the returning glare at the liberty; it was the first flash of Hawke's indomitable spirit he'd seen since they'd been locked in here. "I know you recognized Dr. Anastasia Zarkov. How much of what she did to you before do you remember?  
  
Stringfellow Hawke blinked and a tear detached itself from his light lashes, catching on the fair hair shading his jaw. He angrily palmed it off. "M-most, I think. At least, what happened after...."  
  
"After she convinced you your brother was back from Viet Nam," Michael supplied, tugging lightly at the white wool by way of emphasis. "By using an impostor."  
  
Hawke's blue eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about? That was no impostor. That was Dom."  
  
"Was it?" Michael released the other man's sweater and leaned closer, drawing on every erg of persuasive ability he'd honed to a fine point over those twenty-five years of undercover work. "As I recall, Anastasia Zarkov made you believe an enemy agent was Saint John. Your own brother. What makes you so sure she's not doing it now with your foster father?"  
  
Visibly shaken, Hawke could only stare. "That ... that had to be Dominic." He glanced wildly around the room, then gulped in sudden memory. "His hand!"  
  
"What about it?" Briggs asked coolly, deliberately forcing himself not to scrutinize too closely what he was about to do. Sometimes covert work stunk.  
  
Hawke swallowed. "There was a scar ... right here." He ran one nail down the middle of his right palm, carefully not touching the raw skin. "Dom got that cut pulling Saint John out of his first bar fight." He swiped at his eyes again. "His hand was bandaged for over a week. He said it was from a broken bottle. It was Saint John's eighteenth birthday and ... and Dom was...." He trailed off, biting his lip hard, fighting for control, finishing in a small voice, "Dom is dead and that's something I'm going to have to live with ... until it's all over for good."  
  
"You sound like a defeatist." Michael remarked cuttingly, not liking the despondent note. Looking forward to dying was not something he could ever fathom.  
  
Hawke shook his head sadly. "No. A wishful thinker."  
  
There was so much sorrow in his face that Michael was forced to look away briefly to refirm his resolve. He took a deep breath and composed himself; there must be no cracks in his poise. Hawke was highly intelligent, experienced with the dark side of espionage operations and perceptive enough to see through even a very good lie. He was tough and strong and might have made a good agent in his own right had his temperament been more adaptable to the field. Michael, however, was not just a very good agent -- Michael was the best there was. He steadied his voice into what he considered a confident tone. "There was no scar," he stated flatly, leaving no room for argument. "I was startled at first, but when I looked closer I could tell it wasn't even Dominic."  
  
That garnered some attention, at any rate. Badly confused and hiding it poorly, Hawke regarded him suspiciously, as though wary of a trap he could sense but not yet see. "I don't understand."  
  
Michael casually brushed at the blood -- Hawke's blood and his own -- staining his jacket, then deliberately raised his gaze to meet the desperate blue eyes. "What's not to understand? There was no scar and that wasn't Dominic. This is just one more example of Horn and Zarkov trying to manipulate you into giving up Airwolf."  
  
The response to this was a deep sigh. "They manipulate, you manipulate," the pilot muttered bitterly, hunching his shoulders in a defensive withdrawal. "Isn't that standard operating procedure?"  
  
That's why you'll never be in the business, Briggs pointed out silently. Straight-forward combat, yes, but espionage.... You'll never learn to see the bigger picture when it comes to using people. The necessity of giving up one man for the many. He paused, feeling the aching void in his stomach that had once held a conscience every bit as sensitive as this young man's, remembering that Hawke had had to make that choice fifteen long years ago when he'd given up his brother to save the lives of a dozen and more wounded in Viet Nam. But you never accepted it and you've been paying for it ever since. Just like I will ... if either of us make it out of here.  
  
For Michael Coldsmith-Briggs, the larger picture did loom this day, giving him no options whatsoever save to play the hand dealt him with the weapons available. One of those weapons was Stringfellow Hawke. The pilot, Briggs knew, was loyal to a fault, and when he accepted you as a friend, he accepted a certain amount of trust too, deny it though he might. And there was trust between them, hard won and fragile, that had been built slowly and inexorably over two years' mutual interest in the restoration of Hawke's brother. Michael gathered that trust around him, knowing the younger man was in no condition to examine clearly the game they were playing. There was no fence; either Hawke believed him or he believed John Bradford Horn, a man who had already attempted to destroy him. You can't really trust either of us, Stringfellow, he thought with acerbic irony. But I'm not about to leave you a choice in the matter. It cost Michael one more tweak of his conscience to lay his trump card on the table. "Have I ever lied to you about something like this?"  
  
He knew he'd succeeded when Hawke blinked at him, a hardness creeping in to mingle with the grief. He grabbed Michael's jacket, snagging his fingers in the white lapel and twisting. "Are you sure?" he demanded, his voice hoarse and intense. "Sure that wasn't Dom?"  
  
Michael met that demanding gaze unflinchingly. He raised his right hand to Hawke's, covering it but not forcing it open, feeling the fresh blood from those badly seared palms. Once the shock wore off enough to let the pain seep through fully, Stringfellow Hawke was going to be in agony; he needed to convince him before then. "I'm sure."  
  
They sat like that, face to face, for long seconds, and Michael all but held his breath while the other man considered his words. Then Hawke slowly unlocked his fingers, trailing them down the new scarlet stains on the older man's white clothes before letting his hand drop back to his own lap. He was still trembling, but Michael could see that at least his mind was working again, that razor sharp intellect engaging on the far edge of pain, considering this new angle for himself. "I-I remember what Zarkov did," he said more to himself than the other. "I remember the helicopter crash ... even though it was only a fake I remember it like it was real. Waking up in the hospital ... being told that-that you and Dom were ... dead."  
  
The last word was inaudible; Michael didn't need to have it repeated. The flash of misery that crossed the bruised face was clear enough. "Do you remember the man they brought in? The one they said was your brother?"  
  
Hawke nodded. "I believed them. When I saw Saint John ... the impostor, I was ... happy." He laughed bitterly. "I should have known better."  
  
"What about her techniques?" Michael goaded, not letting the pilot forego his anger for depression. "Do you remember how she influenced you? How she blocked your real brother's image out of your mind?"  
  
Hawke shook his head, his jaw tightening at the reminder. "I saw the tapes afterward. I remember drugs in an IV. There isn't anything else except that, when that man walked into the room, I really believed he was Saint John."  
  
Michael settled more comfortably -- if that word applied to any part of his aching body -- against the wall by his friend's shoulder. Hawke looked like he needed the wall as a brace every bit as much as Michael did -- he was swaying slightly, his brow furrowed with the effort at remaining upright, and damp with the cold sweat of shock. Michael, however, carefully kept his distance -- was determined to deny any trace of emotional support save what he himself fashioned. Stay angry, Hawke, he implored silently, itching to offer any touch, any gesture, that would ease the other's pain and salve his own tormented conscience. But I can't. You have to stand on that anger and use it against Horn. It's the only weapon you've got left.  
  
The damage to this already battered psyche would be doubled, Briggs knew, drawing on the psychology degree he'd earned a lifetime ago. The grief and hurt Hawke was internalizing were cancers that ate from the inside out, often scarring a man for the rest of his life. Michael had seen this happen a hundred times over, and regretted seeing it happen to the pilot again and again. Unfortunately, the consequences of letting Hawke fall apart now, no matter how cathartic the emotional release could be, were greater by far and much longer reaching. Those few moments of mourning Michael had been unable to forbid earlier were all there was to be. Abraham sacrificed his own son, Michael told himself sourly. Guess I can do the same to you, my friend. Aloud, he said, "I saw the pictures of Zarkov's man. He didn't look anything like Saint John."  
  
Hawke bit his lip. "I couldn't tell. After Zarkov was through, I couldn't remember what my real brother looked like."  
  
"But the memories weren't permanent."  
  
Again that hesitation, then Hawke glanced at him cautiously as though admitting a crime. "They ... were. At least, for a long time. I would look at Saint John's picture ... and I'd see that impostor's face. I thought about Viet Nam and Mace and ... I'd see the other, too. Their faces all blurry and running together like a bad film." He leaned his head wearily against the wall, studying the single bulb high above their heads, but his fists were clenched, the knuckles white. "She took him away from me. Even inside. Right up until the minute I saw Saint John in the hospital, I ... couldn't even remember what my own brother looked like!"  
  
"Because of Zarkov," Michael hammered home, cementing his point. "And Horn."  
  
"Another lie." A muscle jumped in the other's lean jaw, his eyes blazing like sapphire. "They're going to pay." Michael watched warily as Stringfellow Hawke wiped blood off his face, his motion jerky as if moving hurt. He dragged himself first to his knees, then his feet, leaning heavily against the wall and favoring his recently broken ankle. He scanned the ceiling for the camera they both knew was there, as his eyes narrowed, fury deepening their color. "Horn!" he choked, opening and closing his hands; Michael could imagine Horn's throat inside them. There was predictably no answer from the industrialist captor, however, a fact which seemed to infuriate the pilot closer to full awareness. He slammed already swollen knuckles against the sterile white surface of the closed door, then swayed, wrapping one arm around his ribcage, the other hand flying to his temple. He took a shallow breath, gagging, then straightened, fury unabated. "Horn!" he called again. "Show yourself!"  
  
"He's not--" Michael began, gaining his knees only with difficulty. Wasn't there any part of his body that didn't hurt?  
  
But Hawke was unheeding of Briggs' hail. He turned, scanning the room wildly. Michael took one look at those mad eyes and felt a not-too- irrational desire to be elsewhere -- fast. Hawke seemed not to notice him at all; he limped past the still kneeling man to the wooden chair, sweeping it up and slamming it against the unresponsive door with all the power in his deceptively slim body. The chair literally reduced to splinters.  
  
Reacting on instinct, the man code named Archangel forced his battered muscles to bring him upright, then threw up one arm, shielding his face from the rain of wood, and feeling slivers strike his protecting white jacket. He looked up again when Hawke fell to his knees, clutching his ribs, his face taking on a hint of gray. Briggs took a single step forward, nearly falling himself when his damaged knee refusing to hold him. He was close enough to reach for Hawke's shoulder, however, only to be shrugged angrily off when the pilot again struggled erect, eyes unseeing. "Horn!" he screamed again, louder, now attacking the door in a frenzy of rage, attempting to open it with his bare hands. Oblivious to pain, he beat at it with both fists, while Michael hung back, letting him expend his fury on the unresponsive and uncaring steel.  
  
Finally, insanity-fueled energy rapidly waning and pain returning in force, Stringfellow Hawke slapped the door one last time and ceased his useless assault. He sagged weakly, leaning his forehead against the barely scratched, blood-stained surface, his breath coming in gasps, his whole posture a badge of frustrated defeat. Then and only then did Michael step forward. Moving cautiously so he wouldn't startle those lightning reflexes back into action, and praying he wouldn't likewise be reduced to splinters by the volatile young man, he stopped only inches away and rested both hands lightly on the slumped shoulders. He could feel Hawke shudder at his touch, although not strike out. "Save it," he admonished coolly. "We'll get our chance soon enough."  
  
Stringfellow Hawke turned, chin coming up dangerously, and Michael adjusted his grip until he was holding the slightly shorter man by the upper arms, as much to keep himself on his feet ... Foot? His left leg still wasn't working any too well. ... as to support the pilot, who was swaying. If the parchment white skin was any indication, the younger man was hanging on to consciousness by sheer stubborn determination alone. Michael knew how he felt.  
  
"They won't get me again like that," Hawke swore in a hard voice, full of hatred. He knuckled moisture off his cheeks and settled a fiery gaze on the door. "Never again. I'll kill them first."  
  
Michael believed him and felt himself relax ever so slightly. This was what he'd worked for, for a furious Hawke was indeed a force to be reckoned with. As counterpoint to the relief, guilt gnawed in his gut, leaving a rancid taste in his mouth. Manipulation came so easily to him; he took a long hard look at the results of that manipulation, viewed a badly injured young man on the edge of grief-driven madness and murder, and saw it for the handiwork it was -- his own. Sickened, he looked away, wondering if even a modicum of what he'd told Hawke was the truth; he hoped it was. A dead impostor would be easier to live with than believing that that really had been Santini they'd watch suffocate. Let the dead bury their dead. He'd completed his job, however, and done all he could to safeguard Airwolf and the lives she could take in the wrong hands; the rest was up to Hawke. He darted a glance at his companion. And if I was going to trust my fate in anyone's hands, it would be yours, my friend. At his side, Hawke was erect and grim, but determined, anger flashing in his eyes. Michael wished he could work up some righteous anger himself; his was too diluted by fear to do the job properly.  
  
*** 


	9. Chapter 9

196---  
  
The fifty minute trip was interminable as Dom had known it would be. Jo sat in the front seat very quietly, mature enough to recognize his need for silence. They reached the high mountains without incident and Dom made his approach from the west, following the ribbon of blue from the point it ran into the valleys as the Meechum River. On a whim, he took the old Sikorsky upstream in a slow circuit of the volcanic basin itself, vigilantly scanning the terrain as he flew. The area below was beautiful and untamed -- a primeval wilderness as untouched as it had been when the Indians had been the undisputed masters of the continent. Even then the majority had shunned this sunny crest, barred by superstition leading back to ancient times, when a handful of shamans would come to practice certain unnamed rituals long banished from the collective memory of man.  
  
He was less than a mile from the sturdy cabin Alan Hawke had inherited from his deceased parents, and directly over the deepest part of the lake, when he spotted an oil slick marring the crystal waters. He hovered lower until he could see pieces of wreckage bobbing in an elongated arc, the slow current spreading them lengthwise in the direction of flow. Of bodies there was no sign for which he was initially grateful. Perhaps his friends had reached shore after all? He made another run along the shoreline looking for any sign that the Hawkes had survived, but there was no sign or disturbance to show that anyone or thing had disturbed the vegetation growing down to the water's edge. Disappointed but unwilling to give up hope, he set the Sikorsky down on the sturdy platform that jutted out over the water. The pilings were solid, and reinforced to double as both boat dock and heliport, and did not so much as sag under the big helicopter's weight.  
  
He shut off the engine, both he and Jo sitting there for several seconds listening to the rotors cut the air in increasingly delayed cycles. He stopped the girl as she was reaching for her safety belt, taking her arm in a firm grip. "Jo, I want to speak to you," he began, breaking a silence that had lasted almost since takeoff. Neither of them had been ready to talk about what they'd heard on the radio; now they would have to.  
  
The girl calmly finished unbuckling, although her wide eyes regarded him soberly. She was not unaware of what they were walking into, he noted, and was remarkably composed about the whole thing. "I know what's going on," she told him in reflection of his thoughts. "Uncle Alan and Aunt Carmella are dead, aren't they? Even if we didn't see them in the lake. And I know that Saint John and String are gonna be crying and stuff."  
  
"You're a very intelligent little girl," he told her without condescension. "And you're right. When we go into the cabin I'm going to have to give all my attention to Saint John and String. Do you think you can stay out of mischief until we get everything sorted out?"  
  
She tossed her head, her expression going from worried to offended. "I'm not a child," she snapped, sounding very grown up indeed. "I'll stay out of your way."  
  
Dom rewarded her with a smile. She really was his favorite niece.  
  
It was a hundred feet to the cabin, which nestled at the foot of one of the surrounding peaks. It was a picturesque place made of sturdy logs, the cracks between filled in with mortar, the sun glinting down to be absorbed by the wooden roof shingles and the evergreens that surrounded the stead. Normally, there was a fire in the hearth, the white smoke pouring from the stone chimney making the place look like something out of a Hallmark card. Normally. Maybe nothing would be normal here again, Santini told himself sadly.  
  
He and Jo walked up the sandy path to the porch, the fragrance of pine riding the gentle breeze. The solid wood door was ajar, and Dom pushed it open slowly, calling out so as to not startle the two within. "Saint John? String? It's Uncle Dom."  
  
"We're in here, Uncle Dom," came a quiet, boyish voice from the living area.  
  
With Jo trailing him, Santini crossed the dining area toward the large, cold fireplace, until he could see the two boys huddled together in one corner of the upholstered sofa. The oldest, Saint John, was a strapping lad of fourteen, with bronze colored hair and intelligent gray eyes. Even with the gangliness of youth upon him, the wide shoulders and strong arms showed promise of the solid build that would be his in only a few years more. He sat with both arms wrapped around a younger boy easily recognizable by virtue of similarity as his brother. Still several months away from his tenth birthday, Stringfellow was a small boy but wiry and strong, with an elfin face, sun bleached hair and serious blue eyes. Dom had known each of them from birth, had taken them fishing and on vacations, treated skinned knees and applied a firm hand whenever necessary, while growing as fond of the children as he was of their parents, his dearest friends.  
  
Stiffly he settled on one knee before the couch until he was on a level with them, his stomach lurching at their shell-shocked expressions. "Are you two all right?" he asked in a low voice, sensing Jo hovering somewhere in the background.  
  
Saint John met his gaze directly; his smooth face was flushed and tear streaked but composed. "I'm fine, Uncle Dom," the teenager replied in a hushed voice, and Dom patted his arm supportively. The boy was upset but making an effort to be calm, and Dom knew this was directly related to his having taken on the responsibility of caring for his brother. "But...."  
  
Saint John nodded toward the boy he held, and Dom offered him a warm clap on the arm. "You did good, Son, real good. I'm proud of the way you handled things up here."  
  
The older Hawke boy managed a wan smile. "Did what I had'a," he returned, and in his tones Dom could hear an echo of the man he was becoming. Dom was very proud of him. He returned the smile and turned his attention to Stringfellow Hawke, who had neither moved nor spoken during this interchange. "String?" he hailed softly. When there was no response, he used his thumb and forefinger to tip the boy's chin up, his anxiety growing by leaps and bounds when he got his first clear look into the child's face. Against the chalk white skin, the blue eyes looked wide and dark, tears leaking slowly over the bottom lids. The effect was even more disconcerting for its silence -- despite the tears, the boy neither sobbed nor sniffed, simply let the tears gather and fall without a sound. Despite Saint John's tight hold, Dom could feel the boy trembling violently, and he blessed everything he held dear that the child hadn't been up here alone all this time -- for both youths' sakes. "String, boy, it's Uncle Dom."  
  
Stringfellow dropped his eyes away from Dom's, nestling a fraction closer to his brother. "They're dead, Uncle Dom," he reported solemnly, so emotionless that in another context Dom might almost have believed he was referring to two strangers rather than his own parents. "The boat exploded and they died."  
  
Dom ran his hand through the child's blond hair, cupping the back of his head. "It was a horrible thing, Son. I'm sorry."  
  
"They're dead," the boy repeated as though he hadn't heard, that frightening calm still coloring his words. "The boat exploded and I didn't do anything to help. I just watched Mom go down and I didn't do anything."  
  
"You couldn't do anything, String," Saint John interjected, crying again himself. "You weren't even awake much. And the gasoline was still burning, and...." He broke off to sniff, loosing one hand from his brother to swipe at his eyes, then replacing it quickly. "I was awake. I should'a done more."  
  
Santini turned on him quickly, tightening the grip he still maintained on the teenager's arm. "Don't ever say that, Saint John. No one could have helped Alan or Carmella, but you saved your brother. Never forget that."  
  
Saint John bit his lip, unconvinced at first, but then String looked up at him, showing the first signs of life Dom had seen yet. His numbed eyes touched Saint John's, containing a trace of near-worshipful adoration. "I'd'a died too without you, Saint John," he said quietly, then he looked away, brushing past Dom's gaze, the spark fading as if it had never been. "But now we're alone."  
  
"I'll take care of you, String," the older boy swore, hugging his brother even tighter. "We're never alone if we got each other. Right, Uncle Dom?"  
  
Santini felt a warmth tugging at the cold spot inside. He twisted to settle gently on the couch on String's other side. One arm he stretched behind them until he could grip Saint John's angular shoulder; the other he wrapped around the front, purposely bracketing Stringfellow between them. "You'll never be all alone, Son -- either of you. Not as long as I'm around." And that was a promise he'd kept with never one day of regret.  
  
They sat like that a long time, Jo standing quietly by the fireplace, until the authorities arrived with their questions and their search. Then Dom swept the three children up and took them home with him. Jo went back to her grandmother after her birthday was over, but the three remaining -- Dom, Saint John and Stringfellow -- stayed together, bonding into a tight, unbreakable family unit.  
  
Until Viet Nam. 


	10. Chapter 10

Eight o'clock brought another beautiful day to Van Nuys Airport and a busy one for Santini Air. The biplane was back together and restored to its position tied down in one of the slots, but there was maintenance work needed for the Sikorsky, and the first of the day's paying jobs was scheduled for ten. This cluttered agenda was complicated by the fact that two of the three persons attached to the company would be spending most of the day at the mountain refuge known as the Lair working on a damaged Airwolf.  
  
With such a cluttered agenda before them, it was not surprising that Santini Air's three resident pilot/mechanics were taking advantage of what few minutes they had before the day's official start. They lounged in the reception area at the front of the building, leisurely enjoying coffee and donuts, and discussing their upcoming chores.  
  
Mike finished sugaring his coffee, taking an experimental sip before opening the Dunkin' Donuts box Jo had brought in with her. He studied its contents curiously, giving the box a shake. Puffs of cinnamon and chocolate dust rose around him, deliciously scenting the air. "What? No powdered sugar?" he asked plaintively, shoving confectioneries aside with his stirrer when shaking failed to disclose his favorite.  
  
"What're you doing, panning for gold?" Jo snapped, taking the box out of his hands. "I don't like powdered sugar, okay? You want powdered sugar, you buy them next time."  
  
"I'm a chocolate fan, myself," Saint John said, leaning over her shoulder and selecting a gooey, chocolate topped donut. He considered and took another, shoving the first into his mouth and swallowing it in a single gulp. "And cinnamon," he managed, gulping again. "And sugar. And....  
  
"And you're going to be big as a house if you keep that up." Jo again relocated the box, this time back in range of Rivers' questing fingers. She sighed and gave it up to inspect Hawke's big boned, athletic figure, then shook her head. "Or not. I don't know where you put it. You eat like a moose and never put on a pound."  
  
"I've put on fifteen pounds since I've been back from Asia," Saint John corrected her. He flexed one bicep, winking when the muscle bulged under the short sleeve of his white t-shirt. "Pumping that lead is paying off."  
  
"That's iron," Mike interjected, spraying cinnamon in Jo's direction. He gulped and hurriedly wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. "Sorry. That's pumping iron, Saint John. Arnold would be ashamed."  
  
"Arnold who?" the older Hawke brother asked, puzzled by the unfamiliar reference.  
  
Mike stared as though he'd never seen the tall pilot before. "Macho soldier type like you hasn't caught any of Schwarzeneger's movies? Well, boy, are we going to fix that! His last one had this scene...."  
  
Jo cleared her throat loudly. "If it's all the same to you two lead pumpers, I'd rather not discuss Arnold Schwarzeneger this early in the morning. Testosterone and steroids were never drawing points for me." She put a donut on a paper napkin and settled in the naugahyde armchair usually reserved for prospective clients. "I'd rather discuss that birthday party we're doing this afternoon."  
  
"Again?" Mike sighed, drooping.  
  
"You mean, discuss as in who's going to be flying it?" Saint John selected the swivel chair behind the bare receptionist's desk and set his styrofoam cup down on one corner. "Forty ten-year-old kids covered with ice cream, cake and punch, all wanting to go up in the chopper at once?" He shuddered. "No, thanks. Besides, you know I've got to start those repairs on Airwolf. Jason's supposed to drop off those replacement parts sometime this morning, then I'm off for the Lair."  
  
"I've got the main initiator circuits pulled already," Mike put in, perching on the opposite edge of the desk. "I'm going to try and recalibrate them before I leave here. Those armor piercing shells fried quite a bit more than just the armaments deployment pod."  
  
"I could work on Airwolf," Jo pouted, picking dispiritedly at her food. "Even flying combat is less hazardous than doing one of those birthday parties."  
  
Hawke shook his head sympathetically. "Sorry. NavCom is your specialty, weapons is mine. It's kismet. Maybe Mike would volunteer to do the birthday party after he's through with the initiator circuit."  
  
Mike's round face split in a grimace. "You kidding? I'd rather fly the Arctic route into Moscow in a sleigh and eight tiny reindeer."  
  
"You're still doing that charter at ten, aren't you?" Jo asked, shooting him an alarmed look. "I have to get the Bell ready for the party." When he hesitated, she sank slapped the desk, gazing at him through large, dismayed eyes. "Darn it, Mike, you promised!"  
  
Beneath such an appeal, stronger men than Mike Rivers had cracked. "Well ... sure," he said, manfully hiding his reluctance behind a faint smile. "It's not like it's honeymooners or ten-year-olds. I'll handle that, then I can join Saint John up at the Lair."  
  
Obviously relieved, Jo returned his smile, then sighed. "I always get stuck with the birthday parties," she grumbled around a healthy swig of her coffee. "The last time I did one, some little ... darling got a lollipop stuck in my new hairdo. Cost me thirty bucks and a tip to get it out without having to go for a crewcut."  
  
"It's because you're wonderful with children, Jo," Saint John said, an impish twinkle appearing in his gray eyes. "They seem to flock to you."  
  
"So maternal," Mike added, his sincerity only spoiled by the humorous twitch of his full lips. "You know, I really think you'd make a wonderful mother. Don't you think she'd make a wonderful mother, Saint John?"  
  
"Wonderful," the bronze-haired pilot agreed, nodding vigorously.  
  
Jo scowled, used to being teased by these two by now. "I love children," she returned tartly, "and I'd like to have several of my own. Some day. Some other day," she added, emphasizing the point by making a chopping motion with her right hand. "And it's not fair. Saint John, about the ADF pod...." She trailed off at his far away expression. "What is it?"  
  
He pointed out the large glass window that comprised the outer wall, and both Jo and Mike turned to follow his line of sight. A car was making its way up the long driveway leading to the hangar. It was a year-old brown sedan with tinted windows and Government plates. "Jason's coming to pay us a call. Wonder if it means he's got a line on Muhallah."  
  
Mike too watched as the sedan turned into one of the parking spaces outside the door. "We'll soon find out. Looks like you may have to fly that birthday party without even moral support, Jo."  
  
Jo offered the blond pilot an unfriendly look. "I'd rather fly against the Russian Air Force."  
  
The three fell quiet, watching as two people emerged from the sedan. One was Jason Locke, his slate colored suit the perfect shade to offset his rich brown skin, the expensive leather briefcase he carried adding to the impression that he should be attending a board of directors meeting rather than visiting the run down reception area of a small air transport service. It was his companion that riveted the male eyes in the room, however. The woman was tall, nearly Locke's height, with shoulder length spiral-curled hair that gleamed a rich chestnut under the sun. A beautifully tailored white jumpsuit sheathed her body, showing off every inch of her voluptuous figure without appearing to show off anything at all. She nodded graciously when Locke opened the door for her, stepping through it ahead of him as though it were her due.  
  
"You picked a bad day, Jason," Jo informed the black agent in lieu of a greeting. "I assume that briefcase has the parts we needed for the you- know-what?"  
  
"Nice to see you, too, Miss Santini," Jason returned dryly, placing the bag on the desk. "And no, it doesn't. Those will be along this afternoon via courier." He noticed the two male pilots' stunned expressions and beckoned the woman a little closer. "Gentlemen, Jo, I'd like you to meet Pamela Billingsley. She's one of Michael's Angels."  
  
"She certainly is," Mike murmured, finding his voice and wits at roughly the same time. He blinked and smiled boyishly, stepping forward with an outstretched hand. "Major Mike Rivers, Air Force Intelligence. And a pleasure it is to meet a fellow professional."  
  
"Please come in!" Saint John too leaped to his feet, appropriating the amused woman's hand from Rivers' and leading her to the nearest chair. "I can't imagine why I haven't run into you before. I thought the intelligence community was such a small one."  
  
"It's certainly full of small minds," Jo muttered, rolling her eyes. Despite the quip she smiled in a friendly way at the other woman. "Don't pay them any attention, Pamela. Their glands just go into overload this early in the morning. Happens all the time."  
  
"I don't mind at all," the pretty agent returned smoothly, freeing her hand from Saint John's and using it to smooth her white jumpsuit. "At least, I wouldn't if I were here on other than business."  
  
Mike laced his fingers theatrically on his chest, face raised dramatically heavenward. "My hopes are dashed. Oh, well. We still have Paris."  
  
One perfectly drawn brow rose coolly. "Paris? When was that?"  
  
The boyish grin returning, Rivers draped himself across the desk, propping his head on one hand. "How does next weekend sound?"  
  
"It sounds like your oldest pickup line," Jo interjected, swatting him on the back. "And get off my desk."  
  
Mike sighed and complied. "The course of true love, etc., etc."  
  
"I'm afraid your social life is going to have to wait, Major," Locke said, pulling up a straight chair next to Pamela's. "We're here on serious business."  
  
Jo took a nibble of her donut, wiping her lips immediately and scowling when some of her pink lipstick smeared off. "If this is about what we talked about last night," she said, using the napkin to wipe her mouth, "your timing stinks, Jason. Santini Air has a full flight schedule today -- a full paying schedule."  
  
"Jo isn't feeling very patriotic today," Mike said to Pamela. He re-took his favorite perch on the edge of the desk, to the brown haired woman's right and out of Jo's way. "I, on the other hand, was born singing The Star Spangled Banner."  
  
"Which really freaked out his mother," Hawke commented, resuming his own chair and retrieving his coffee. "What can we do for you, Jason? Is this the Pamela you mentioned yesterday?"  
  
"Perhaps we'd better clear the air before we get into why I've come." Pamela crossed long legs, swinging one white pump off her toe. "Before you ask, I've worked with Archangel for over five years, and have been teamed with Marella on several missions in which Airwolf was called in. As Jason might have mentioned yesterday, my present assignment is to locate Bishop Morris and hopefully trace his full connection with Muhallah."  
  
"You were right to mention this," Mike told her, finger combing his blond curls into place. "There shouldn't be any secrets between us."  
  
Hazel eyes reproved him with a look. "I'm here on a very serious matter, Major."  
  
Jason, more experienced at ignoring the irrepressible Mike Rivers, addressed the quietly attentive Hawke, who was sipping his coffee. "Saint John, I understand you brought your brother into town yesterday?"  
  
Hawke regarded the black agent over the top of his cup, gray eyes instantly wary. "I brought him to the airport yesterday. He borrowed my Jimmy and went into town ... or wherever ... on his own."  
  
"Have you heard from him since then?" Pamela Billingsley asked, piercing him with a sharp gaze.  
  
Hawke met Mike's eyes beyond her, then shook his head. "He didn't come back last night."  
  
Jo chewed a knuckle, her pretty face creased worriedly. "What's all this about, Jason? What happened to String?"  
  
There was a moment's hesitation, then a casual wave in Hawke's direction. "We don't know that anything has happened to him. We do know that Archangel was supposed to meet him yesterday." He dropped his hand and adjusted his cuff. "When a man in Archangel's position doesn't check in for over twenty-four hours, the Company starts to sweat."  
  
"Maybe they just had another appointment?" Mike guessed more out of form than belief.  
  
Pamela licked one red-painted lip, tapping the desktop with a long nail. "It's not like Michael to break standard operating procedure like that. Especially procedure he helped devise. Besides, he couldn't send Stringfellow Hawke in until we had more information to go on."  
  
Saint John sat up very straight. "In where?" he demanded with a hard edge to his tone.  
  
The female agent regarded him blandly. "In after Bishop Morris, of course. Michael was quite certain he could persuade your brother to go undercover -- use his past relationship with Morris to get a foot in the organization."  
  
Hawke loosed a low, vicious oath, broad features showing not a little anger and more than a trace of disgust. "For your information, lady, the only 'relationship' my brother had with Bishop Morris was to tell him to pedal his drugs somewhere else." He put his coffee cup down so hard liquid slopped over the top onto the desk. "I knew Archangel was looking for more than just a friendly little chat. He couldn't resist trying to lure String in on more of his little games."  
  
"Michael wouldn't exactly have held a gun to his head," Billingsley retorted acidly. "And whether or not your brother was willing, nothing was going to go down yesterday anyway. Something must have happened to him -- to both of them."  
  
Mike glanced from Hawke's tight face to Jason's somber one, finally settling his gaze on the white clad Pamela Billingsley, who was running her fingers agitatedly through her hair. "Do you have any clues at all?" he asked, for once devoid of drollery.  
  
She shook her head, square jaw tight. "Nothing yet. What we're trying to do is trace Archangel's movements after he left Knightsbridge yesterday. At this point we're not even sure he did make the meeting."  
  
Jason noticed the donut box and helped himself, rooting through the remaining pickings before giving up and selecting one at random. "I'm involved not only because of the inter-departmental Airwolf mission, but also because Stringfellow is more officially connected with my section now that Michael's no longer coordinating this team." He took a bite of the donut, then looked around frantically for a napkin when cinnamon dusted his suit. Jo passed him a stack, which he took gratefully. "Thanks. Good thing it wasn't powdered sugar."  
  
"Mr. Hawke." Billingsley leaned forward, resting her elbow on her crossed knee. "Are you certain your brother mentioned nothing more about his meeting with Michael? Not where it was supposed to take place, or even why he chose not to meet at the cabin?"  
  
Saint John frowned at that, gray eyes growing narrow. "You're mistaken. String didn't choose where the meeting was supposed to be. Archangel set it up."  
  
Pamela and Jason exchanged a surprised look, the black agent replacing his donut without taking a second bite. "Are you sure about that?" he asked earnestly. "According to our information, Michael requested a meeting at the mountain cabin. It was Stringfellow who changed the meeting location although we're not sure to where. Michael got a message only a few minutes before he left for the rendezvous; it was scrambled and carried Hawke's personal confirmation code."  
  
The tall pilot rubbed his fresh shaven chin, his frown deepening. "I'm starting to get a very bad feeling about this." He tilted his head up at the sound of engines directly overhead. "We've got more company."  
  
A helicopter swept past the front of the building, low and obviously about to land. It rose slightly, disappearing over the roof in the direction of the landing slots to the rear. "It's a CHiPs chopper," Mike said with a shrug. "So what?"  
  
"So you'll excuse me if I get a little curious as to what the police want with Santini Air at a time like this," the big blond retorted, gaining his feet and heading for the door leading into the rear hangar area.  
  
"If they're coming here at all. They could be going to Angelo's or Ozzie's," Jo said.  
  
"It's a big airfield out there," Mike added, also gaining his feet.  
  
Saint John shook his head and continued his way. "They're coming here."  
  
Mike and Jo scrambled after him, soon followed by the two DNS agents. The group wended its way through the dim hangar, emerging into the sunshine just as a white-painted helicopter bearing the CHiPs logo touched down. The roar of the engine cut suddenly although the whoosh of the air through the still turning blades created a brisk zephyr that ruffled hair and clothing.  
  
Two people were visible through the clear plexiglass partially enclosing the open cabin, both clad in the traditional light uniforms of the California Highway Patrol. A tall, boyishly slender woman climbed out of the pilot's position, and removed her headset, allowing chin length red hair to spill forward around her face. She then pulled off her sunglasses and examined her surroundings through wistful green eyes. "Wahl, ah see not much has changed around this place," she drawled in a voice laden with the tones of old Texas. "Guess that's kind'a nice."  
  
"Caitlin?" Jo ducked the still whirling blades, a pleasant if puzzled welcome on her face. She darted a curious glance at the second newcomer, a powerfully built male, but addressed the woman. "Caitlin! It is you!"  
  
The redhead nodded amiably. "Yep! Sure is! How you all doin'?"  
  
"I'm fine." Jo gave the helicopter a professional scan then led the way back to where the rest of the group waited by the open hangar. "Guys, you remember Uncle Dom's former employee, Caitlin O'Shaunessey."  
  
Saint John stepped forward out of the pack, hand extended. "Hello, Caitlin. I haven't seen you since that special memorial service the Navy held for Dominic."  
  
"Two weeks after you got back in the country. I remember." Caitlin grinned suddenly, her pixy-ish face splitting in a flash of white teeth. "After hanging around String and Dom for a year and a half, it's not likely I'm gonna fergit you!"  
  
Hawke pressed her fingers once and released them. "After hanging around String and Dom for a year and a half, you probably wish you could!" He pointed at the rest of the team, standing nearby. "You've met Mike Rivers but not Jason Locke. He's a ... co-worker," he finished after a cautious look at Caitlin's heretofore silent companion. "And this is Pamela Billingsley."  
  
Caitlin glanced at the tall, chestnut haired woman's spotless white attire and grinned cheekily. "I kin guess who she works for! Think ah might'a met you once, didn't I?"  
  
Billingsley nodded. "Marella introduced us. A pleasure, Miss O'Shaunessey."  
  
"All mine, Miss Billingsley." Caitlin tugged her associate, a dark haired, olive skinned man, nearer. "Like y'all to meet my partner, Ramon Gutierrez. Ramon, the names you didn't hear belong to Saint John Hawke and Jo Santini."  
  
Gutierrez was two inches taller than Caitlin, bringing him roughly on level with Mike Rivers, but stocky, wide shoulders and massive arms betraying many hours spent lifting weights. Intelligent dark eyes examined the group briefly, even as full lips under a straggly mustache parted in a friendly smile. "Meet 'cha," he responded in a pleasant, lightly accented baritone.  
  
"What brings you here, Cait?" Jo asked. "If you're looking for String, he's not around right now."  
  
"I stopped by to see him couple'a weeks ago up at the cabin. Gave him royal heck for not calling me sooner." Caitlin puffed her cheeks out, the very picture of exasperation. "Still can't believe he survived that helicopter explosion and didn't even let me know about it! 'Course, you kind'a learn to expect stuff like that out'a him." Green eyes flashed dangerously. "Not let him get away with it, understand, but expect it."  
  
"I see you know my brother pretty well," Saint John chuckled, tucking his t- shirt more securely into his jeans.  
  
She tossed her head pertly. "Lot better'n most, I guess."  
  
"So what does bring the California Highway Patrol to Santini Air?" Jason interrupted the pleasantries, continuing a furtive scrutiny of the quiet Latino policeman. "Nothing to do with our helicopters, I assume." His question's hidden meaning was obvious: Nothing to do with Airwolf?  
  
It was Gutierrez who answered. He pulled a small notebook out of his breast pocket and flipped it open. "Mr. Saint John Hawke, do you own a red GM pickup, license number HAWKE-1?"  
  
Saint John stiffened, every muscle tensing into watchful readiness. "I do."  
  
"The vanity plates were my idea," Mike added to Pamela as an aside. "I figured a little style never hurt anyone."  
  
Ramon spared him a bare glance. "No argument there, Sir, but I do think you should know that the Jimmy was found abandoned in the parking lot of some strip joint called Ling-Ling's this morning. We're not sure how long it's been there; since they're open twenty-four hours a day, the owner didn't call us until some would-be thief set off the alarm. Bar being that far outside've town, our airborne unit was called in."  
  
Caitlin fingered her sunglasses before hooking them in the neck of her buttoned shirt. "While we were answering that call we found another car that didn't belong to anyone in the bar. A white Lincoln." This she addressed to Pamela and Jason, who had visibly pricked up their ears. "Plates traced back to the Feds. I was gonna phone your organization after we talked to Saint John, here."  
  
"Caitlin seems to think it could belong to some kind of a Government official," Gutierrez interjected, dark eyes scanning each member for reaction. "She insisted we stop off here before reporting it to Central. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to tumble that Cait knows who that car belongs to."  
  
Jason Locke and Pamela Billingsley exchanged a knowing look, then Locke addressed the CHiPs officer, choosing his words with great care. "Officer O'Shaunessey's assumption is correct. The car belongs to Michael Coldsmith- Briggs III. He's a top official with the Department of National Security."  
  
"Operating out of that complex on the outskirts of L.A.?" Gutierrez asked with surprise. "I heard of you guys. Central's SWAT team worked with your men on some operation on the waterfront last year. Some terrorists took over a boat."  
  
"I remember that one well," Caitlin mumbled under her breath.  
  
Ramon cocked an inquiring brow at his partner. "You worked for them, too, Cait?"  
  
The redhead hesitated then shook her head. "I worked with them for a while. Nothing official." She turned back to the waiting group. "I'm assuming Hawke and Michael were on a case?"  
  
"Information only," Saint John stated obstinately, stuffing his hands in his jeans pockets in a habitual pose. "Michael was looking for background on a former colleague of ours."  
  
She digested this a moment, seeming to take in as much from his expression as the words. "If that's true, why did they want to hook up in some old dive like Ling-Ling's? Can't imagine it being Hawke ... I mean String's idea; he hates places like that."  
  
"Michael wasn't fond of them, either." That was Pamela, her aristocratic face tight, fingers twining together at her waist. "It was a clever trap by someone who obviously knew Michael wouldn't bring a woman to a place like Ling-Ling's. Whatever else, Michael was always a gentleman and rather protective in that way."  
  
"And since he hadn't assigned any of his top male agents to this particular case," Jason added, thoughtfully stroking his mustache, "they could count on him showing up alone."  
  
"Alone except for my brother." Saint John took a breath, his face reflecting a deep worry beyond the precise control he usually exerted over his emotions. "There's a lot of people who'll be glad to get their hands on String now that word's gotten out he's still alive."  
  
"You think maybe we're dealing with foreign agents, then?" Gutierrez asked, swarthy face alight with interest. "For what reason? Information?"  
  
"More than that." Saint John swallowed hard, his shoulders hunching ever so slightly with the tension he was internalizing. "If they have String they can only be after one thing." In deference to Gutierrez' presence he declined to say what that one thing was, not that it was even necessary. Jo laid a hand on his arm.  
  
"We'll get him back, Saint John," she said encouragingly.  
  
Pamela's hazel eyes echoed the sentiment. "Both of them."  
  
Hawke thanked them with an absent smile, his own gray eyes glinting like polished steel. "Yes. We will." There was no doubt in his tone -- nothing but a deadly conviction more certain than any oath.  
  
Nodding his agreement, Jason regarded the Latin CHiPs pilot seriously. "Officer Gutierrez, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to maintain strict security on this matter. That means reporting only that you located the owner of the Jimmy without repeating anything you learned here to your superiors. This is now a Federal matter."  
  
"That's against reg--" Ramon began. He broke off when Caitlin jabbed him with her elbow.  
  
"We understand," she said firmly. "It's all right, Ramon. These guys are on the level and the two abductees are friends of mine." She smiled at Jason. "Don't worry, Ramon and I have worked together almost three months now. I'll vouch for him."  
  
Ramon glanced at her gratefully. "And if Caitlin says you guys are okay, I'll go along." He hooked his thumbs in his belt and twisted slightly until he could address Saint John directly. "Caitlin talks a lot about your brother, Mr. Hawke. He sounds like a fine man. I hope you'll keep us in mind for back-up if you need it."  
  
Saint John managed a returning smile. "Count on it."  
  
The two police officers took their leave then, promising to run checks on the club and patrons they questioned in case there were any connections, improbable though that may be. "I can even have a buddy of mine in forensics go over the area unofficially," Caitlin promised with a wink. "Jack owes me a favor. And I'll be calling in anyway every couple of hours. Don't forget, I care what happens to Hawke and Michael, too."  
  
The team waited until the helicopter had taken off before gathering in a loose huddle by the hangar's front door. "Could the abductions have anything to do with the investigation on Bishop Morris or Muhallah?" Mike asked, fingering the buttons on his shirt pensively.  
  
Jason shrugged. "We're following up on it. No connection yet except for the time frame."  
  
"What about that man, Morris?" Jo asked, leaning her back against the building. "Isn't there anything new on him?"  
  
"As a matter of fact, there is." Locke left off stroking his mustache to tug at it. "We red flagged his description and probable origin at all customs checkpoints. A routine passport check gave us a positive identification -- Pamela picked up the dispatch personally this morning on her way out the door, so there's no possibility of a leak. The Company will be making 'friendly' contact this afternoon."  
  
"It might be our one shot," Mike said soberly. "Hope you assigned someone good to the job."  
  
Pamela patted her chestnut hair and assumed a seductive pose, hand on hip. "As a matter of fact," she crooned silkily, "he did. The very best the Firm has to offer."  
  
*** 


	11. Chapter 11

Born in Washington, D.C., of comfortable, middle-class parents, Jason Clarence Locke began working for the Department of National Security (affectionately known to its East Coast staff as "The Company") in the mid- 1960's when he was twenty-three years old and a first Lieutenant in Viet Nam, still full of the ideals of truth and country. He'd finished the war with honors, then stayed on in the Golden Triangle region with a DNS special drug investigations team functioning in loose association with the DEA. Five years undercover, accumulating evidence against several of the local drug lords -- many of them ex-American soldiers -- garnered him enough recognition to win a berth in the Company's lower management echelons. From there he'd worked himself up the ladder, proving himself a consistently effective, by-the-book agent with dozens of successful operations to his credit.  
  
It was that combination of war experience and hard-nosed approach that had prompted his section leader, Donald Newman, to appoint him intermediary between the Government and Stringfellow Hawke, when Archangel had been abruptly transferred to Hong Kong. His mission: to assume Archangel's unenviable task of continuing to persuade the renegade pilot to use Airwolf on DNS missions. This way, as was carefully explained to him with fully four members of the Central Committee in attendance, they could avoid having to surrender the prototype helicopter to fellow agencies -- the CIA came immediately to mind -- while still having access to it whenever major firepower was needed. True, they wouldn't be able to duplicate Airwolf without eliciting suspicion in certain circles, but a delay of a few years was something the Company was prepared to accept to avoid losing control of the gunship altogether. Oh, and would he mind not mentioning this to the rest of the Committee? Wheels within wheels.  
  
What Locke's organization hadn't told him was how to manage his assignment. Stringfellow Hawke's psychological profile had painted an explicit picture of the man Locke would have to deal with: a withdrawn and uncompromising loner utterly obsessed with the search for his brother and bearing no lasting love for the bureaucracy that had, in his estimation, failed them both. Not a promising start to a negotiation, Jason had conceded upon reading it.  
  
Michael Briggs, it was rumored around the watercoolers, had influenced through charm rather than intimidation, and had never failed to get what he wanted even over the vehement protests of Hawke's closest friend, Dominic Santini. Michael had even been able to invoke the obligations of friendship from the taciturn young man when necessary, and, when all else had failed, there had always been the search for Saint John, something Hawke would not have jeopardized even to save his own life much less salve his pride.  
  
But cajoling was not part of Locke's management style, and he'd gone into that first meeting prepared to enforce his authority as Airwolf's new controller by showing Stringfellow Hawke exactly who was boss, even physically if necessary ... and it had very nearly come to that! But Jason had acted with far more restraint when, quite to his surprise, he'd found unexpected nuances behind the bland black-and-white facsimile in the file. While hostile, Hawke was not the spiteful traitor to the United States that Locke had anticipated having to browbeat into submission; he was instead a sad, driven man who only wanted to have the last of his family back. Was that what Archangel had seen as well? Jason wandered that ground often, and understood Michael Coldsmith-Briggs just a little better for the question. He'd even been prepared to alter his management style just a little if that was what it would take to keep the peace, and had thrown himself into the search for Saint John Hawke with a single minded determination of his own. Of course, his association with Hawke had been brief. An assassin's bomb had changed the framework of Jason's job considerably but not irretrievably.  
  
After the loss of both Stringfellow Hawke and Dominic Santini, and working carefully within the parameters set out for him by Newman and the Committee, Locke had started his assignment with a fresh slate. He'd begun by putting together a specialized team with aerial combat experience, and enough intelligence background to be used on undercover missions when need of the powerful gunship seemed certain. It had been serendipitous that Mike Rivers and Jo Santini had involved themselves from the beginning and proved willing to continue on even after Saint John's rescue from Burma. The new group had worked well together, their pseudo-autonomy affording Locke a large degree of latitude in the outworking of his assignments, and giving him the firepower to extend his secondary field teams to the full.  
  
Not that there weren't problems. Working with two such forceful personalities as Army Reservist Major Saint John Hawke and Air Force Major Mike Rivers guaranteed that conflict was inevitable. Both headstrong types, they were not uncontrollable. Rivers was, after all, a graduate of the Air Force Academy and used to following orders, if not blindly. His impulsive, flippant attitude was offset by the cool sensibilities of a combat pilot, his fearless, aggressive nature making him a warrior to be reckoned with.  
  
Saint John Hawke's old Army file had portrayed him as the epitome of the good soldier -- solid, dependable, efficient and deadly. Fifteen years under inhumane conditions had not altered that. Generally stoic and centered, the man was not, however, emotionless; deep waters ran behind that impassive front, that few were privileged to see. Saint John tended to keep his own counsel and follow his own path for all he was nominally team leader to Jason's liaison, the contrast to Mike's impetuosity affording the group a much needed balance. Even Jo, with no intelligence training or experience, had shown herself bold and resourceful. All in all, the Company psychologists had congratulated Locke on putting together what might well be the perfect team, adding several managerial kudos to his already glowing file.  
  
Of course, the return of Saint John's volatile younger brother, Stringfellow, bade fair to change all that! There had been many warnings from those self-same psychologists about how the unpredictable young man could effect the dynamics of the team. Independence was not considered a virtue according to Company standards nor, truth be told, by Jason's. Not that Jason was sorry to see the kid alive; a pilot of that calibre and with that much courage was hard to find, and the younger Hawke had proven himself invaluable on that mission into Mexico last month. He could even be convinced to cooperate if you approached him just right, as Michael did ... or if you had Saint John run interference.  
  
And, it must be admitted, Jason had come to consider Saint John, if not Stringfellow, a friend, and was glad on their behalf to see them reunited after a decade and a half apart. He'd seen the affection between them, had heard of the harmony they exhibited in combat. Instinct told Locke that given enough time to work out the unavoidable personality clashes, this could only serve to unite the team more closely rather than tear it apart, no matter how self-reliant the members. Yep. One way or the other, things were going to work out, and Jason Locke had assessed himself relatively happy with his lot. That is, if you didn't count the developing stomach ulcer.  
  
Until today.  
  
Today, Jason Locke was not happy -- he was annoyed. He'd been official liaison for the Airwolf team for several months now -- head of his own field unit for seven years -- and after nearly two decades in the spy game was reconciled to having to fight to establish his authority with underlings and superiors alike. Reconciled, maybe, but that didn't mean he liked it. And he liked it even less when a case he had a personal stake in was terminated abruptly by anyone below Committee level without explanation. Puzzled as well as annoyed, Jason Locke sought out his superior that very afternoon.  
  
"Apollo!" he rapped, deliberately using the man's code name rather than the polite, "Donald," as per usual.  
  
The tall, gangly man looked up at Jason's precipitous entrance, casting his young secretary, who had followed Locke in, an accusative look.  
  
"I'm sorry, Mr. Newman," she sputtered, glaring at Locke from the side. "He was past me before I could stop him."  
  
Newman skimmed her tiny figure, his smile mentally comparing it with Jason's six-foot, one-and-a-half inch, muscled frame. "It's all right, Dolly," he assured the distressed woman in a courtly southern drawl. "I'll handle things."  
  
Dolly huffed once and left.  
  
Jason waited until the door had closed behind the secretary before addressing Donald Newman. "I want to know why my requests for information on the Morris affair were cancelled via your override codes!"  
  
"And I want to know," Newman shot back, craggy face growing stern, "why you're investigating the Morris affair at all! That is not your unit's responsibility."  
  
Jason clenched one fist for an instant, forcibly keeping his temper from boiling over. "My responsibility as head of the Airwolf team extends to anything that would affect the performance of my unit. I would say the disappearance of Michael Coldsmith-Briggs and Stringfellow Hawke qualifies on that count, wouldn't you?"  
  
That sobered Newman, although the man did not back down. "I'm fully aware that Archangel is missing -- the whole Department is on full alert trying to button up any holes his defection is going to cause...."  
  
"Defection?!" So inconceivable was the concept that Locke was startled out of his own anger into a brief gawk. "Michael wouldn't defect!"  
  
Newman stared down solemnly at his drab brown suit for a long moment, refusing to face him. "You don't know that," he said carefully. "None of us do."  
  
Jason thought back, remembering the dealings he'd had with the white- suited, charismatic blond who was the Company's (the Firm's, as Michael called it) Deputy Director of Operations. The man was charming and brilliant and crafty -- and utterly loyal. Jason firmly shook his head. "No, sir. Michael did not defect. Kidnapped or worse, but Archangel would never defect."  
  
Newman's head jerked back up, his expression indecipherable. "How can you be so sure?" the man asked tonelessly, watching Locke through veiled eyes.  
  
Long experience had blessed Jason Locke with sensitive internal alarms that warned him immediately when something was about to go very wrong. Whatever was behind Newman's question caused every one of those alarms to go off at once. To buy time to sort them out, Jason threw himself into the nearest leather armchair, and raised a brow. "If he was going to defect," he said caustically, offering no information, "I would hardly expect him to take Stringfellow Hawke along."  
  
Newman thought about it for no more than a second before releasing his breath in a sigh. "No, of course not. Hawke might be difficult...."  
  
"Might be?" Jason echoed with mild irony. "Let's face it, that boy's a pain in the butt." He flashed on the few encounters they'd had so far, the narrow-eyed suspicious gaze the younger Hawke had turned on him, the resistance encountered at every turn. A royal pain in the butt. Then he remembered the open love the man had shown when he'd looked at his brother, the integrity in those blue eyes and the strength of will that might even surpass the indomitable Saint John's, and Locke knew the answer already. "No. Neither one of those two defected."  
  
"Maybe." Apollo's reply was noncommittal, his tone far less so.  
  
Never one to mince words, Jason sat forward, resting his palms flat on the polished desk, "What are you implying?"  
  
His supervisor made a throwaway gesture that fell far short of nonchalance. "Michael has made it no secret that he's been unhappy with the way the Company has handled his career lately. He called in markers from the entire Committee to get that transfer to Hong Kong nullified, and has been restored to his stateside position over even Senatorial protest. As a matter of fact, he's even pushing to regain his position as head of Project Airwolf."  
  
Surprise on surprise! "I never realized. Perhaps that's why he was kidnapped."  
  
That possibility evoked more indignation than interest in the older agent. "Don't you understand?" he growled. "The man is most certainly going to be taking your place. At the very least you'll be replaced by someone from his section, maybe even Stringfellow Hawke."  
  
"Who is also missing," Jason pointed out. He was puzzled by the belligerent attitude although he was well aware of the friction between the various Committee members and their seconds, particularly with Archangel, who always managed to come out on top. Still, compared to the man's kidnapping and possible fate, this was no time to consider petty political squabbles ... or was it? "Is that why you aborted my information search?" he asked resentfully. "To protect our investment in Airwolf?"  
  
Newman cleared his throat but was too much an old hand at the spy game to show any more reaction than that. "Of course not. However, I do prefer that you restrict yourself to missions generated within your section. Archangel's disappearance will be handled by his people."  
  
"They're already involved. Pamela Billingsley has been assigned to the case. She's one of Michael's Angels."  
  
"Angels." Newman made a face. "Such an ostentatious man. How he ever climbed to the rank of Deputy Director is quite beyond me."  
  
It certainly is, Jason thought nastily although prudently keeping his opinion to himself. He shifted his gaze to the window and the manicured lawns surrounding the massive stone building, watching interestedly as a gardener sprayed weed killer while occasionally taking the time to sneeze into a dirty handkerchief. Hope that's hay fever and not poison. Aloud, "The theory we ... they are exploring is that Michael's disappearance is somehow linked to the case he's working on right now."  
  
"Which is?"  
  
Jason's warning bells went off again. He considered lying then thought better of it. Apollo had security clearances up the wazzoo -- and it wasn't as though he couldn't just pick up the phone and find out directly from Zeus. Besides, Newman's administrative bent of mind might -- just might -- be able to lend some new insights on the problem. "You know about that Muslim extremist group, Muhallah's, attacks on NATO installations. Pamela is connecting with one of their men this afternoon. She'll get him to lead us right to whoever is on top of this."  
  
"Does this man have a name?" Newman asked, brown eyes intent.  
  
"Bishop Morris. Morris was an old Army pal of the Hawkes."  
  
Newman considered this, his hands clamped in his lap, his head bowed. "I see. It seems they have the investigation under control. Obviously, they don't need you involved. That particular type of intelligence work is Archangel's province, anyway."  
  
Jason shook his head. "I disagree. Michael is connected to Airwolf, and anything affecting Airwolf becomes my area of expertise."  
  
That elicited a spark in Apollo's muddy eyes -- one of anger. "You can disagree all you want to, Mr. Locke, but Michael's disappearance is a matter for the Committee. Let them handle things while you tend to your own circle of responsibility. In other words, Jason, you are off Archangel's investigation as of immediately."  
  
Fury knotted the muscles in Jason's gut but there was something in the other man's eyes that held his tongue. Without a word he stood and left, slamming the door hard behind him.  
  
Unbeknownst to Locke, Donald Newman stared hard at the closed door for several seconds until Jason's furious footfalls disappeared through the office and down the hall. He considered another moment then picked up the phone and dialed a number he'd carefully memorized. "This is Newman," he said when it had been picked up on the other end. "We have a problem...."  
  
*** 


	12. Chapter 12

196---  
  
Los Angeles' main airport was busy -- even more so than the bustle it enjoyed in peacetime. Military personnel scurried from one terminal to the other, some alone, others sharing final farewells with weeping families. The feeling in the air was not that of the merry expectancy of a vacation, but rather the heavy realization that many of these men embarking on tours of duty a hemisphere away would not be coming back, that many more would return alive but damaged either physically or mentally. This knowledge enshrouded the entire facility, strangling out the excitement of adventure and leaving only an empty, cloying fear.  
  
In the middle of this confusion yet clearly apart from it, a tall man in an Army uniform stood bracketed on one side by a middle aged Italian in a battered flight jacket, and on the other by a frightened looking boy with long, blond-brown hair.  
  
"... and write at least once a week," Dominic admonished, adjusting the bronze-haired soldier's tie minisculely for effect. "You don't have ta' give out any secrets to let us know how you are."  
  
Nineteen-year-old Saint John Hawke slapped his hands away affably, readjusting first the tie then his jacket with short, jerky tugs. "I know, Dom. Don't worry, I'll keep in touch."  
  
"Ahhh. Knowing you, we'll count ourselves happy for the occasional postcard." Santini stood back a single step and studied his foster son through misty eyes. Saint John made for a handsome soldier, he decided, throat swelling with pride at the sight of the tall, powerfully built young man with the strong jaw and sharp gray eyes. He compared the brave but grieving fourteen year old who had come to live with him in Van Nuys, to the self-confident soldier who stood before him now, and nodded to himself. No doubt about it, Alan, he mentally told his deceased friend, Saint John's grown into a fine man.  
  
He rested his hands on the broad-shoulders, having to reach up to do so, and feeling solid muscle under the green cloth. "Your dad would have been proud of you, boy. I am."  
  
Saint John gulped, his Adams apple bobbing and his voice growing husky. "I'm gonna miss you, too, Dom. Both of you." He shifted toward the silent boy on his right, giving him a forced smile. "So, hey, String, aren't you going to tell me to flame a Viet Cong for you?"  
  
The boy didn't answer at first, simply stared back with his lower lip scissored between his incisors. "You won't have to," he said at last in surprisingly even tones. "I'm gonna be over there with you soon to do it myself."  
  
Dominic opened his mouth to protest, the words stopped when the soldier tousled String's long hair. "Not for a while you're not! At least not until you fill out a bit." He laughed and snagged the boy's belt in both hands, giving it a playful tug. "Besides, you're only fifteen! You've got to graduate high school then you're going to go to Berkeley, remember? Dad set up that college fund for you to be an engineer."  
  
"He set one up for you, too," Stringfellow Hawke retorted, voice starting to quiver. "You only went one year before you j-joined up."  
  
"Gotta do my duty," the young soldier replied simply, expression begging understanding but also containing a trace of enthusiasm for the adventure he was undertaking. "I've got to do this, String."  
  
Wide blue eyes continued a desperate scrutiny of his elder brother's face, and reflected in that gaze Dominic could see all the pain of expected loss that filled his own soul. "Saint John ... I...."  
  
Saint John opened his arms and Stringfellow threw himself into them, burying his face against his brother's green uniform jacket, the both of them clinging to each other as though they'd never let go. Tears gathered in Dom's eyes too. Saint John and his brother had lived with him for five years now since the death of their parents, and the boys had become like his own sons -- as dear to him as Sally Anne had been. He slipped one arm around Saint John's back, the other across String's shaking shoulders, pulling them both against him. His family.  
  
"We're gonna miss you," he croaked, hardly recognizing his own voice.  
  
Saint John sniffed and raised his head from where it rested against his brother's hair, a fond smile lighting his lean features. "You take care of yourself. And String."  
  
"I'll take care of him," Dom swore, allowing Saint John to back away but leaving his hand possessively on the boy's skinny back. "You just take care of you."  
  
The older Hawke nodded gratefully, and touched his brother on the arm. "Good-bye, kid."  
  
String watched silently while the new soldier picked up his duffle bag and started toward the gate. "I'll join you soon," the boy swore under his breath, and Dom cast him a sharp look, striving to see under the pall of loss that had shadowed the youthful features since his brother had announced his enlistment. They stood there side-by-side, watching as Lieutenant Saint John Hawke made his way through the crowds and toward the plane that would carry him first to Tokyo then Saigon. Dominic Santini wiped his eyes again, wondering if this was the last time he'd ever see his older son again.  
  
***  
  
It was a very troubled Jason Locke who joined the Airwolf Team for lunch that afternoon, having assumed the task of the courier who was to ferry Airwolf's replacement parts. "I don't understand," he finished summing up the events of his meeting with Donald Newman. "When someone of Archangel's stature disappears, the Company pulls out all the stops on finding him. Almost every other project is put on a back burner, but Newman is preventing us from following up on our best lead."  
  
"He's not really preventing it from being followed up," Saint John pointed out fairly. "He's just preventing you from doing it."  
  
"Isn't there some kind of sectional ethic involved here?" Mike asked, poking curiously at a ham-on-rye sitting amidst a sea of potato chips.  
  
Jason regarded his own sandwich soberly. "Not with something of this magnitude. And Newman mentioned a belief that Archangel vanished voluntarily, maybe even defected."  
  
"That's impossible." That was Saint John Hawke, sprawled comfortably in one of the visitors chairs next to Jo's desk. "Michael was meeting my brother."  
  
Jason went still, only his eyes moving to meet the pilot's. "Apollo thinks it's possible Stringfellow was collaborating."  
  
Offense brought Hawke up very straight, blue-gray eyes flashing through slitted lids. Despite the shade, his eyes were very like those of his younger brother, if usually less revealing, the family resemblance having manifested most strongly there. "String collaborate on a defection? My brother wouldn't do that, Locke."  
  
"Tell it to Newman," the black agent snapped back. He caught himself, fingering his mustache agitatedly. "To tell you the truth, I got the impression Newman didn't really believe it, either. It felt more like a line he was using to keep me out of the investigation."  
  
Saint John subsided into his chair, only partially mollified by his friend's qualification. "He'd better not believe it. String's no defector."  
  
"Don't mess with the big guy's baby brother!" Mike gibed, breaking the tension by giving Saint John a friendly nudge. He held up both hands as though reading a newspaper. "Extree! Big Brother Blasts Boss for Bro! Pictures at-- Oooph!" This last was in result of Saint John nudging him back rather more forcefully. Mike subsided, rubbing his stomach. "Okay, okay! I was only trying to help!"  
  
Hawke shook his head pityingly, while Jo, obviously grateful to the Air Force Major for easing the friction between her two friends, rolled her eyes in a heavenward appeal. "I'm surrounded by juveniles," she groaned, breaking off at the look on Locke's face. "What is it, Jason? There's more, isn't there?"  
  
Locke nibbled his sandwich, using the action to hood his eyes. "I don't know. It was just a feeling I had that Newman wasn't being honest with me."  
  
"So what else is new?" Mike asked rhetorically, scowling at a spot of mustard on his jeans.  
  
Jason dabbed his lips on a paper towel before answering with careful words. "No, I don't mean the standard need-to-know policy, and it wasn't even normal administrative top dog games. This was...." He trailed off, shaking his dark head again. "I've got a bad feeling on this, brothers, and how do you argue a feeling?"  
  
They ate in silence for several minutes, digesting the thought more than the food. Finally, Jo shrugged. "I think you're going to have to make any decisions on trusting Donald Newman, Jason; after all, you know him better than any of us do. The first time I met him was three months ago at the hospital. He was the one who told me that Uncle Dom was dead. I thought he was a hospital administrator until I saw him again later with you." She scowled. "I should have known the Company would have its fingers in anything that had to do with Airwolf. Even that."  
  
Rivers slurped at a Coke, his bland expression generated by many years of dealing with the military mind. "With an on-going project, the Company knows about anything that goes down. Like Big Brother." He cast Saint John a glance. "I mean Orwell, not you."  
  
Hawke ignored the remark to cross his legs at the ankle. "I've met with the man a few times since I came back. He's an administrative stuffed shirt but he didn't seem to be too bad of a guy."  
  
"I didn't like him at first," Jo interjected, "but I assumed it was only because of the association with Uncle Dom's death. He was quite nice to me when we worked together on that mission you boys did in Scotland."  
  
"I remember that one vividly," Mike groaned, rubbing the still visible scar on his forehead. "Bottom line, Jason: are we on or off the case?"  
  
"My bottom line," Saint John stated flatly, food forgotten on his plate, "is that my brother might be in trouble. There is no way I'm backing off this until I know String's okay. And that any mission he might have taken was his idea, not Briggs'."  
  
Abandoning the remains of his pickle for a steaming cup of coffee, Jason considered, staring into the dark brew with an expression of deep concentration. "Apollo ordered me off of Archangel's disappearance; he didn't say we couldn't continue looking for your brother. And if the cases happen to overlap...."  
  
Saint John took a vengeful bite of his sandwich. "Fair enough," he mumbled after a hasty gulp. "Mike and I finished what calibration on the salvaged modules we could do here. Now that you've brought the replacements we needed, we're heading out to the Lair to begin installation this afternoon."  
  
The phone rang. Jo grabbed for a napkin, nearly upsetting her iced tea. With one hand she righted the plastic glass, with the other she snatched at the receiver. "Santini Air."  
  
"Jo?" came a slow Texas drawl on the other end. "This is Caitlin O'Shaunessey."  
  
Jo covered the receiver with her palm, mouthing to Locke, "It's Caitlin." A punch of the button activated the speaker. "Have you and Ramon come up with anything on Ling-Ling's?" she asked aloud.  
  
"What about your friend in forensics?" Saint John called from his seat.  
  
The other woman's soft accent hardened. "Can't tell you. According to VNPD's Lieutenant Grodin, pressure from the top squashed our inquiries on every single level. Even all the information my friend, Jack, gleaned from the cars is missing. This smells like the Firm's work."  
  
"Not all the Firm, Miss O'Shaunessey." Locke leaned closer to the speaker. "Thanks for trying. We'll take it from here." He reached to hang up, stopping at the outraged feminine sputter on the other end.  
  
"Don't you dare!" Caitlin yelled. "I worked with those two for almost two years -- they're both friends of mine. If you think you're cutting me out of this case now, you've got another think coming!"  
  
That won smiles all around. "We wouldn't think of it!" Hawke called, a note of gratitude softening his slightly nasal tenor. "I'll page you the minute we know anything."  
  
"Fair enough," the woman said, signing off.  
  
In the sudden vacuum, the team exchanged a helpless look. "So ... what do we do now?" Mike asked, pushing away his food.  
  
Jason shrugged. "Nothing much we can do until we hear from Pamela."  
  
*** 


	13. Chapter 13

Even without an ongoing war, Los Angeles International Airport was a veritable whirlwind of motion as befit one of the busiest airports on the surface of the planet. The impression of hyperactivity was only heightened by the pace at which the travelers pursued their goals, each individual in a continual rush as though to slow down was to lose out forever. There were no dodderers in this crowd; men with briefcases dodged women with strollers, suitcases and garment bags swinging like mad pendulums in their collective grasp.  
  
Amid this bedlam Pamela Billingsley stood like a shining beacon of composure, even her cool beauty attracting little attention from the distracted crowd. Dressed in a flight attendant's uniform and armed with a United Air employee's identification, Pamela stood quietly by the exit ramp the passengers of Flight 1067 from New York would use to enter the terminal. For the first and only time she checked herself in the reflective surface of the glass wall opposite; a small smile lifted her lips at the sight. Make up, hair, clothes -- all perfect as usual, although she had to admit to herself that she missed the distinctive white garb that had distinguished her as one of Michael's "Angels" for the past five years. Her chestnut hair was styled softly today, hanging loose to frame her square jawed face, her figure shown off to perfection by the specially tailored uniform. She was ready and she was certainly able. Morris wouldn't stand a chance!  
  
Sharp hazel eyes scanned the crowd from her position against the wall, analyzing and evaluating every face she saw in a single flash. To her right, a mother stood surrounded by five whining children, admonishing them briefly before the entourage continued its trek to the next gate; even from down the corridor, Pamela could hear them screaming over the loudspeaker. Two Hari Krishnas in loose robes worked the crowd to her left, distributing pamphlets and soliciting funds. Businessmen and women, flight crews, Red Caps.... It was a pretty motley collection, she decided, but so far as she could perceive, not an enemy agent among them.  
  
Flight 1067 was announced, snapping her around. She pulled several papers out of her pocket, holding them aloft and facing the door, alert for her target. Her cover was pre-set, background established with the airport administrator and indistinguishable from that of the other employees. Morris' dossier said he was a womanizer with a hefty libido and little self- control -- she could certainly cater to that! All she needed was an excuse -- one small excuse to meet the man, and nature should take its course. Unless, of course, Morris was secretly gay, and that had only happened once in her career. How her fellow agents had laughed about that!  
  
Two attendants, one male, one female, busied themselves with the ramp, and moments later travelers were debarking in a stream like cattle through a chute. From her position, Pamela had no trouble spotting her target when he appeared. He was a full head taller than his traveling companions and burlier than his photos had indicated, a broad-shouldered, middle-aged black male with close cropped hair and a full beard. Pamela glanced once at the animalistic look in his hard eyes and reached her conclusion: a brute of a man but cunning -- perhaps the most dangerous of combinations, but also the most vulnerable to the type of offensive she was planning.  
  
As people began to mill, she painted on her most plastic smile and initiated her strategy. "Mr. Mason?" she inquired of the first male she encountered, a portly businessman who gaped stupidly up at her. "I'm looking for Mr. Mason."  
  
She'd hailed the third group before he heard her. Eyes so dark as to appear black, narrowed suspiciously at her use of his pseudonym, the broad shoulders stiffening as though the man was trying to decide whether or not to bolt. Pamela's smile widened as she met his eyes; she injected a note of lustful appreciation as she looked him up and down, having to fight a hefty dose of repugnance to achieve even a bit of sincerity. "Excuse me, are you Mr. Mason?"  
  
The smile did it; Morris unbent enough to scrutinize her in return. "Why?" he volleyed, not yet ready to drop his guard.  
  
Taking acknowledgment as a given, she turned her papers around so he could see them. "Hi! I'm Pamela! From Flyers Assistance?" She pointed pertly to her prestamped nametag. "I just had a question about your luggage. One of the name tags fell off and we wanted to make sure you got everything back."  
  
So innocuous a reason relaxed the big man slightly although there was now a crafty awareness in his expression that set off subliminal alarms Pamela was at a loss to interpret. Simple caution? She hoped so. But since she'd taken care of all arrangements personally so that there was no possibility of a leak, how could it be anything else? Small, piglike eyes continued to scrutinize her figure with less than gentlemanly grace. Pamela tossed her head prettily, not a hint of offence marring her beautiful features. "If you'll walk this way?" She paused, waiting for the expected,  
  
"Darlin', I wish I could, but with the way you move that little butt of yours, I don't think I can."  
  
Pamela forced a giggle at the crudity, her hips swinging gently as she led him to the far side of the gate, where two small bags were just being delivered by a male attendant. Again Morris glanced around but, upon spying nothing untoward, relaxed completely and crouched to examine the luggage. "There ain't no tags on this one," he exclaimed as though he'd just discovered a new continent. He fingered a piece of broken elastic adorning the handle; Pamela knew that strap -- she'd broken it herself not ten minutes earlier.  
  
She stooped next to him, the maneuver revealing a great deal of shapely leg. "But there is a tag on this one," she commented, pointing to a nylon carryall. "That's why we paged you. They are a set, aren't they?"  
  
Morris dutifully studied the bag, nodding. "They're both mine."  
  
"Good!" Pamela smiled and rose, accepting the beefy hand offered her and allowing the big man to help her up. "No harm done. We even saved you a trip to baggage claim! Efficiency, right?"  
  
Rather than releasing her hand, Morris squeezed it, using the grip to pull the woman closer. "I like efficiency," he hinted. "Makes a stranger in town feel real welcome."  
  
"Are you really a stranger?" Hazel eyes grew wide. "I hope you'll be meeting friends or family here. Or maybe even ... a wife?"  
  
Morris shook his head. "All alone, Baby."  
  
No kidding, Pamela thought, tasting something nasty in the back of her mouth. Nevertheless, her smile grew seductive, her fingers caressing his in a coy little gesture. "Maybe not completely alone ... if you play your cards right."  
  
***  
  
It was near morning by Stringfellow Hawke's estimate when the door buzzed then slid open, waking him out of the numbed half-aware state he'd sunken into some hours before even despite the vitriol that threaded his nervous system from his burned hands. The guards thundered into the cell, their heavy footsteps turning the throbbing behind his eyes into a veritable Fourth of July. Three men bracketed the door, rifles held at ready as though expecting the prisoners to stage a full-scale Attica uprising. We would if we could, Hawke warranted, feeling Michael stiffen at his side. Both of us would ... if we could. No matter how badly we hurt. He shivered against the chill that had been with him all night, and leaned his head back against the wall to stare at the newcomers, blinking to focus stubbornly bleary vision. The guards stared impassively back, as moved by his scowl as they would have been by an insect on the floor.  
  
There was another clatter of heels on tile, slower this time -- the firm tread of a man in control -- and John Bradford Horn's debonair frame filled the entrance. He was dressed impeccably as always, today in a tan suit jacket over brown pants, his brown oxfords so highly polished that they reflected the ceiling lights almost as a glare. He ambled into the room, taking up a stance only feet from the seated men and offering them an affable smile. "Good morning, gentlemen!" he boomed with good-humor. "I hope you slept well?"  
  
"How could we not?" Michael returned dryly, adjusting his glasses with one hand, "considering the Five Star accommodations we were given?" The levity lacked the bite Michael was capable of delivering under even the most adverse conditions, and String cast him a quick glance, wondering if he were injured more badly than he'd declared the previous night. He certainly looked every bit as wretched as Hawke felt, his posture slightly hunched to protect his belly, his nose swollen and sore looking. The single blue eye was shadowed too, dark with the knowledge of what was to come.  
  
"I doubt they slept at all," Anastasia Zarkov remarked from a step behind Horn. Unlike her host, she was dressed casually in green slacks and shirt, a wrinkled lab coat tossed carelessly over her shoulders. "Expectation is even more potent a stimulant than amphetamines, and just as fatiguing." She studied Hawke closely, bright brown eyes sweeping him from head to foot, and he had to struggle not to shrink away; he recalled all too well the last time those beautiful eyes had been turned on him in pseudo- kindness. "I think he's still in shock, John. Perhaps I should dress his hands before we continue."  
  
"Allow me my surprise first, Anastasia!" the industrialist admonished heartily, slipping an arm around her shoulders. "I bring you good news, gentlemen! It seems as though we might all have been a bit premature yesterday. Mr. Santini has not succumbed to his injuries after all!" He settled his benign gaze on Hawke, who was glaring back narrow-eyed and wishing for a single moment's break in the guards' attention. Just long enough for me to reach your neck, he wished grimly, the reflexive twitching in his fingers sending his hands into spasms. Unaware of these yearnings -- or perhaps simply uncaring -- Horn went on, "It seems I can offer you a chance at a fair trade after all, Mr. Hawke! Airwolf for Santini! How's that for a bargain?"  
  
He blanked momentarily when Hawke told him precisely what he could do with his bargain, the surprise the first crack in that urbane facade. Hawke felt a touch of satisfaction at that, that wasn't erased when Horn leaned forward, hands on his hips, expression hardening. "Perhaps you didn't understand, boy. I said, your foster father ..." He emphasized the title. "... is still alive."  
  
"He's been dead three months," Hawke spat back, resenting the appellation from this man. He disregarded the weapons pointed in his direction to climb awkwardly to his feet, then wobbled back against the wall, balancing his weight on his right ankle when his left threatened to give 'way. "He's dead just like you're going to be as soon as I get my chance." And he would get his chance, this he knew, for Saint John's miraculous return had restored his belief that there was some form of justice in the universe, some repayment for faith. He just hoped he would be in condition to take advantage of it when it came. Every inch of his body ached from two rather thorough beatings, the flame in his hands washing over him in waves to mix with the throbbing that radiated downward from his head to his rebellious and fortunately empty stomach. He could tell that Zarkov's diagnosis of shock was correct -- everything seemed to be happening at a distance and to another man, as though he were spectator rather than participant. He shivered, then tried to block out his discomfort, finding his condition ignorable to a large degree. It wasn't hard; he'd been hurt before and far worse by experts. No, the physical pain he suffered was no more than an inconvenience compared to the knife twisting his heart.  
  
"Not dead yet," Horn was warning in a dangerous voice as though he could really carry out his threat; fortunately, Hawke knew better.  
  
... Didn't he? Hawke caught his breath, another shiver running through him as he considered the possibility just once that maybe this wasn't a lie -- maybe Dom really was...? His jaw clenched with the effort of forcing away the visions of the day before. Too many people had played with his head over the past two years -- he couldn't trust what he'd seen. He had to believe what Michael said -- he had no choice. Michael would lie about a lot of things, he thought, swallowing hard, but he never lied to me about Saint John and that means he wouldn't lie to me about Dom. In that simple statement mingled a small amount of comfort with a staggering relief. This was one unwinnable decision he didn't have to make, one loss he wouldn't have to chalk up to his own unpayable account. One ghost he wouldn't have to carry for the rest of his life, although Dom's death would forever haunt him. But not like it was with Saint John. I would rather be dead myself than live with any more guilt like that.  
  
"I could kill him right now and simply go on with my original plan." the industrialist added, unaware of the pilot's train of thought.  
  
Hawke managed a cold laugh at the man's audacity, although he admitted frankly that without Michael's warning, he might have fallen for the threat. Once but not now. Thank you, Michael. "Pretty hard to kill a three-month-old corpse, isn't it?" he asked derisively, managing not to wince at the imagery. "You goin' in for séances these days?"  
  
From his position on the pilot's left, Michael cleared his throat. He too was now standing although slightly hunched, one hand pressed against his abdomen. "Uh, Hawke, maybe...." When String glanced at him questioningly, he hesitated and shut his mouth with an audible snap. "Face it, Horn," he addressed the industrialist instead, "your little games aren't going to work this time. We're both older and wiser."  
  
Arctic eyes flicked to Michael then dismissed him as business to be handled at another time. Horn took a deep breath, back on balance. "We'll do this the hard way then," he said, making a great show of smoothing his tan suit. "The way that worked before."  
  
"You will pay for this."  
  
"Threats, Archangel?" Horn asked, turning inquiringly towards the speaker. "I had thought you a man above such petty fantasies."  
  
Michael stepped forward, limping on his bad leg but looking as dangerous as a hunting snow tiger nonetheless. He stopped when the rifles swiveled menacingly in his direction, unafraid but coldly calculating. "No fantasy. You can take that as a simple statement of fact."  
  
Blue eye clashed with blue, challenge, parry and riposte exchanged with the flick of a lash. Hawke watched them from where he stood, too filled with bitterness himself even to be impressed by the white-suited agent's show of strength. Time held ... then something incorporeal passed between the antagonists and they both subtly relaxed, the dual over. "Worried about your friend, Archangel?" Horn asked, not looking completely pleased by what had just transpired. "Don't. You'll be joining him soon." He smiled, showing his teeth shark-like. "After all, Airwolf isn't the only thing I'm after. I'm sure, once you're properly persuaded, you'll be only too happy to offer whatever assistance I require. Such as the restoration of my Swiss bank accounts?"  
  
Zarkov smiled charmingly, and Hawke could only wonder how a woman who could exude such maternal warmth could possess the heart of an asp. "I studied your files, too, Mr. Coldsmith-Briggs. You should be an interesting subject, perhaps even less difficult than our young man, here. The East Germans succeeded in brainwashing you once; an Irish terrorist broke you for information on another occasion. The cracks already left in your psyche could be all I need."  
  
Horn jerked his head contemptuously at Hawke, who tensed. "Take him." While one soldier kept Briggs covered, his two colleagues strode forward, grabbing Hawke by both arms and locking his wrists behind his back. The pain in his hands and head nearly brought back a return of the blackness that had claimed him periodically over the long night hours, and he was tempted to give in to it, for any respite from the misery would have been welcome. But inside his breast Stringfellow Hawke nursed a gnawing hunger for revenge, sheer stubbornness keeping him alert for any opportunity to take it.  
  
"You won't get either one of us," Hawke growled, his vision returning as he was dragged physically out of the room.  
  
Michael's soft encouragement of, "Hold on, Stringfellow," was the last thing he heard before the door slid shut.  
  
Twisting and kicking in the guards' grasp, the pilot was hauled unceremoniously back through a long corridor that his pilot's sense of direction told him led under the large building and to the north; obviously, the estate sprawled. Overhead the sound of boots could be heard, muffled by the heavy timbers but moving in disrhythm; Hawke guessed that to be the section dedicated to the troops' barracks. A right hand bend put them in an eastern section which contained only two doors, one of the normal glassed-in variety, the other a sliding security panel, both separated by a wide gap. Through the first a face peered, that of a child -- a little girl of about eight. Dark curls framed a heart-shaped face, and large brown eyes desperately met Hawke's own. No more than seconds later, the child was wrenched backward toward what appeared to be a medical lab, and Hawke was pulled several yards farther on.  
  
Aghast at the possibilities inherent in that single, brief contact, Hawke turned horrified eyes to Zarkov's amused ones. "You're experimenting on children?" he blurted, all thoughts of revenge momentarily erased; nevertheless, the guards tightened their restraining hold on Hawke's arms nearly to the breaking point. Bowed backward, his lips tightened although he made no further reaction to the pain than that.  
  
Seeing this, Zarkov stepped closer. Not overly tall in her low heels, she had to stand on tip-toe until she could look directly into his eyes. She studied his face silently for several seconds then smiled and ran a painted nail gently down his cheek. "Children like you, my love," she said in so caressing a voice that an outsider might have been excused for thinking her a mother soothing a favored son. She laughed as Hawke jerked away from her touch. "Fragile young children like you."  
  
Horn was less amused. His handsome face flushed, small veins standing out in his forehead. He glared at one of the guards holding Hawke. "I left orders that the child was to be kept out of sight."  
  
"The techs had to run a security check on her cell," the stockier of the two explained, not letting go his own responsibility. "She was only supposed to be here a few minutes."  
  
Dr. Zarkov dropped her hand onto her hip, spinning in place to face the millionaire industrialist. "It is not a problem that our dear Stringfellow has seen the girl," she assured him in her accented English. "I can promise you that in a few hours he won't remember his own name, much less sweet Amy's." She glanced over her shoulder, this time ignoring Hawke altogether. "Bring him inside. We're ready to begin."  
  
Like the first, this room proved to be set up as some sort of laboratory, although different from little Amy's temporary cell. A small bank of equipment was neatly arranged against the far wall before which sat a padded gurney outfitted with restraint straps. The right side was dominated by a large mirror -- undoubtedly one-way glass. Hawke couldn't suppress a shudder as he was fastened down, secured by the wrists and ankles. "You won't get me this time," he gritted, a bare tremor in his voice. "Not this time."  
  
"Won't we, my darling?" Zarkov stared down at him from one side of the gurney, Horn peeking interestedly over her shoulder. She rested her hand on Hawke's chest, giving him a pat. "I'm familiar with the inorganic hallucinogenic-opiate analogs John used on you a year ago. Follow-up analysis revealed that they tend to remain in the tissues for quite some time, up to three or four years, in point of fact. Since your body has carried them for two, the cumulative effects of a second dose should increase your susceptibility to my own brand of suggestion several times over." She brushed his hair back, and Hawke couldn't resist feeling a thrill of fear at her clinical attitude. "My theory is that these drugs used under the modified delusional pattern induced by my original conditioning attempt, can be reactivated in tandem, the ... How do you say in English? ... imprints already made in your brain brought forward until your reactions to stimuli can be predicted and controlled with maximum accuracy." She patted him again, curiosity lighting her brown eyes. "Do you feel it, Stringfellow? The thrill of scientific exploration?"  
  
All Hawke felt was very afraid.  
  
They used torture to break through his guard, agony so intense the shrieks were ripped again and again from his cracked lips. Barriers were impossible to maintain in the face of such torment, resistance a pitiful joke. He barely noticed the pinprick injection that came after an eternity of screaming his life out in a hellfire existence. A long time later, when the ideas began to come, they were seemingly of their own accord, and Hawke, too numb from pain and exhaustion and grief to question anything closely, found himself unable to discern which were his own and which were their's. Even his own identity slipped away, his sense of self only something he'd known once in a dream.  
  
"Who are you?" a voice asked at one point. "What is your name?"  
  
"I-I don't know," he croaked through anguished tears. "I don't know!"  
  
"Don't fret, my love," someone gentle assured him. "We shall remember everything ... together."  
  
The voice was soothing, feminine, and he latched on to it like a lifeline. Like my mother's voice, he thought, grasping at a memory so deeply buried that only the mental disinternment he was undergoing could have brought it forward. She's soft like my mother. "Mom?"  
  
Laughter like the tinkling of bells answered his despairing cry. "My poor darling. You trust me, yes?"  
  
Mom, he thought again, beginning to relax, for Carmella Hawke -- his mother -- had been a haven for the sensitive young boy against the hurts and pains of the world, both parents a steady foundation Saint John had helped provide after they were gone. He wept when he was unable to quite remember what his brother looked like. The images of two men answered his summons, one large boned and lean but well muscled, with calm gray eyes and long, strong features. The other was shorter, older, square jawed and worn, with a shock of gray hair and a limp. Saint John? I don't even have you any more! Both those anchors, parents and brother, were gone, he dully acknowledged, but Dom had proven himself a more than adequate replacement. Dom was.... His eyes flew open. Dom!  
  
The universe -- reality -- reestablished itself with shocking clarity. Quite suddenly Stringfellow saw beyond the red haze of suffering, blinking to focus on sterile walls and bright lights, and two faces leaning over him. Anger flared nova hot, a lightning flash burning through the pain. The sight of Dominic Santini appeared as an overlay, clawing out his life in a metal tube, choking his last breath in terror. "Y-you won't ... get me ... again," he managed to snarl, glad when those despised faces blanked with dismay.  
  
"This isn't going to work," Horn gritted as though through a tunnel; his female companion touched his arm.  
  
"Give me a chance. We have other options." Zarkov gestured to a female attendant, who passed across another hypodermic. "I'll try another two cc's; perhaps that will give us the opening we need."  
  
It wouldn't work. Stringfellow Hawke would never again slave for the man who'd taken his father, brother and very soul. This he knew with every fiber of his being. He grabbed on to the image of Santini, embraced the grief and the fury that attended it, absorbed the physical pains and hurts and let them feed the laser core that was his own hatred. On top of this he touched another concept, the ethereal transcendence men called freedom embodied in the sleek, aerodynamic lines and awesome power of Airwolf. "I won't let them have you, either," he whispered, feeling the prick of the needle. "Won't--"  
  
And then the pain crashed in again and the world stopped. 


	14. Chapter 14

Had any of the party been out of doors they might have enjoyed the fabulous view of the bright sun slanting steeply from the west. Sundown was only minutes away, the rays already realizing the ruby glory that had inspired poets down through the ages. There were no windows in the lab, however, and no one bothered to tell Dr. Anastasia Zarkov the time, as if she would have cared. She made the final notes on her pad and handed it to the ever present Lydia, then remained where she was, contemplating the unmoving Stringfellow Hawke. "I may have miscalculated," she muttered, pursing full lips from which the lipstick had long ago been chewed off. "We will not get results this way."  
  
Horn, sprawled tiredly in a chair near the door, looked up at her words, then pushed himself erect and approached the gurney. He too stood staring at the unconscious man, a tight expression on his face. "You've failed?" he demanded in tones that had sent many an underling fleeing in terror. From Zarkov they elicited only a toss of the head.  
  
"Of course I have not failed, John. From a scientific point of view, the only failure is an act from which one learns nothing."  
  
Horn brushed that aside impatiently, his pale eyes icy. "I care nothing for the scientific point of view, Anastasia. I'm a business man. I'm only interested in the attainment of my objectives." He took Hawke's chin in one palm, turning it toward him the easier to study the young man's slack, bone white features. "He looks dead."  
  
"Certainly not!" Fleeting alarm graced Zarkov's planed face. She lifted one of Hawke's eyelids, then wrapped her fingers around his wrist. "Not dead," she said at last, breathing a sigh of relief. "Shock. We can bring him out of that."  
  
Horn stood unmoving. "To what end? You've been working on him for ..." He glanced at the platinum Rolex on his wrist. "... twelve hours now. And what do you have?"  
  
Zarkov smiled. "I have a blank slate, John." Her smile faded under his stony gaze. "Granted, we will not get the same results as either of us did before. The boy is strong-willed, and this time he was prepared. However, the human mind can barrier only so much against invasion." She cocked her head thoughtfully. "Fascinating how he managed to protect himself from the grief of Santini's death by convincing himself our 'version' was not the authentic one."  
  
"I wonder whose idea that was," Horn snarled, casting a calculating look in the direction Archangel waited.  
  
The Russian psychologist ran a hand through her mussed dark hair. "It does not matter. That could be usable."  
  
"How?" Horn asked harshly. "Threatening him with an illusion he doesn't believe in isn't the reason I've sunk millions of dollars into this endeavor."  
  
"Of course it isn't," Zarkov returned bluntly. "You have pursued this track to avenge yourself. From what I have seen, your vengeance has been adequately fulfilled."  
  
That gave the industrialist pause, an involuntary smile twisting his thin lips. "You've been watching those old movies again, my dear. You're starting to talk like one." He stuck his hands in his jacket pockets and turned away, walking a few paces before returning to the gurney. "Vengeance, as you say, was one of my goals; however, it was not the reason I've gone through so much trouble or taken such risks at this particular time."  
  
Zarkov crossed her arms over her breasts. "You wanted Airwolf as well."  
  
The former billionaire paced several steps in either direction, a scowl marring his handsome features. "It's all gone wrong on too many levels. It cost me a small fortune to find out that the Government had located Saint John Hawke in Cambodia and hired Blackjack Buchard to retrieve him. I bribed that fool even more to use the brother to acquire Airwolf for me instead of turning him over to the Americans."  
  
Anastasia watched her assistant run a check on Hawke, who was still deeply unconscious; even a brief application of amyl nitrate under his nose did little but elicit a weak twitch. "It was a good plan at inception," she told Horn absently. "Psychologically, it was flawless."  
  
The industrialist ran an angry hand across his face, glare directed in the woman's direction but not at her. "Field Marshal Helmuth once said that no plan survives contact with the enemy. He was correct, an intricate strategy being all the more susceptible to the whimsy of the Fates. That bomb I ordered planted at Santini Air was supposed to eliminate only Santini. His death would have increased Hawke's isolation, making him even more vulnerable and anxious to acquiesce to any arrangement I offered, including trading Airwolf for his brother."  
  
"It might have worked had it been Stringfellow, with his greater emotional commitment, who went into Burma after Buchard, instead of that second team," Zarkov pointed out without accusation. "But being so badly injured, that was impossible."  
  
Horn stopped pacing long enough to slam one hand flat against the wall, anger changing his stride to short, jerky steps. "The specialist I hired has paid for his mistake, and I was able to acquire Santini for later use. However, the setback necessitated this interminable delay and a complete restructuring of my plans."  
  
"Didn't that O'Shaunessey woman know anything?" Zarkov asked, never taking her bright brown eyes from Hawke's slack features. "Or that mechanic, Everett Logan?"  
  
Horn ground his teeth. "If only they had. None of my sources could turn up evidence that either were any more than part-time pilot-mechanics with the company. I had them watched, of course, as did the Firm, but neither have said or done anything suspicious since the explosion." He spun suddenly, taking the woman by both shoulders. "I need Airwolf. Need it, Anastasia, to attain my goals. Now that the boy's brother is back -- his genuine brother," he added, shooting her a wry grin, "there are others who can fly it against me." He released her to stare thoughtfully down at Hawke's face. "What was once a simple matter grows annoyingly complicated."  
  
"Then we must simplify it again." Zarkov stroked Hawke's cheek, long fingers playing delicately across the bruises decorating his high cheekbones, smoothing the lines of pain in his forehead. "It will only be necessary to abandon this direct approach we have been using for one more subtle. Rather than fighting the old loyalties that protect him from us, I propose to use them by blending them into the delusions I am planting now."  
  
Horn snorted disdainfully. He pointed to the mirrored glass wall; a face was projected there, square jawed and gray haired, one Stringfellow would have recognized from his deepest nightmares as the man he'd once believed was Saint John Hawke. "Now that his real brother is back, Hawke is never going to believe in that man again. Why are you still trying to convince him that this impostor is the genuine article?"  
  
"Believe it or not, that could be the easiest part of the process. However, my main goal here is to reconstruct old contacts with his subconscious and intensify the confusion of reality. If I am careful, he won't be able to tell which 'brother' is the real one, which shall help us sever ties to his past." She tucked one dark strand behind her ear, her attitude that of a lecturer. "There are other fealties at work here; if orchestrated carefully, they can be realigned into something we can use." Zarkov looked up apologetically, meeting her employer's cold eyes. "I fear you won't have Stringfellow's personal loyalty for yourself anymore, and he won't knowingly fly missions for you. However, there is an excellent possibility that you will end up with Airwolf in your possession."  
  
Horn chewed his lip thoughtfully. "I want Airwolf for myself, but would settle at this point for her destruction. My priority now is preventing Stringfellow, his brother or his brother's team from using it against my men when we attack the weapons installation in Greece in sixty hours."  
  
The Russian psychologist nodded graciously. "That I can guarantee."  
  
Horn leaned over the gurney, bracing himself by placing one stiffened arm on either side of Hawke's sweat-soaked head. He stared a long time into the younger man's battered features, mulling his options carefully. Finally, "Very well. That will suffice for the moment. What will you need?"  
  
"Need?" Zarkov smiled that slow, lazy smile of hers, like a cat with a mouse already under paw. "I already have all I need. I have a mind open and vulnerable and just waiting to be transformed. Give me a little time and I shall fill it with many delicious things."  
  
"Time is one thing we have very little of, Anastasia," Horn warned, again consulting his Rolex. "Very little indeed."  
  
***  
  
Last year  
  
Dominic Santini took the woman's hand in his one last time, squeezing it gently. "I just wanted to thank you again, Meg. Without you, we would have never found Michael in time, and Stoner would have escaped with that avoidance system."  
  
Megan Ravenswood returned his smile uncomfortably. "I'm glad I was able to help. It isn't often I'm in time to do more than locate a body after the fact."  
  
Dom studied her carefully, noting yet again the turned down mouth that sobered her usually vivacious appearance. He tipped her chin up with his thumb; she was above average height, and this allowed him to look deeply into her troubled blue eyes. "What is it, Megan? I thought you'd be a lot happier now that everything was cleared up. Maybe that fishing trip--"  
  
She jerked away, then touched his arm timidly in apology. "I'm sorry. It's just ... there's not going to be a fishing trip, Dom. Not for me."  
  
Santini gaped at the vehemence of her refusal, all out of proportion to simply declining a vacation. He followed her involuntary glance to the lot, and the patiently waiting man visible in the open jeep parked there. Stringfellow Hawke was sprawled bonelessly in the passenger seat, head tilted back on the rest, face turned to the sky. His eyes were closed although even at the distance Dom could tell he wasn't asleep. There was an aura of suppressed tension in that slim body that Dom knew was a hold- over from the stimulation of the combat that afternoon. Neither one of them would sleep easily that night. "Is String the problem, honey? Listen, he didn't mean to come down so hard on you. The kid just gets upset and...."  
  
She cut him off by pressing two fingers against his mouth, offering that soft smile he remembered and loved so well. "No, Dom. He hasn't offended me. Since this morning he's been a perfect gentleman." She waved a hand vaguely, looking even more embarrassed. "Do me a favor, Dom?"  
  
"Anything," he returned, meaning it.  
  
"Then do-don't bring him back here, okay?"  
  
"Don't-- String?" Santini stared, stunned by both the request and the naked appeal in her voice. "Megan, what did he do?"  
  
She laughed, a short bark he wouldn't have imagined her throaty alto to be capable of producing. There was no humor in the sound but neither was there the anger he half expected. "I mean it, Dom, he didn't do anything wrong. It-it's what he is." She tapped her breast. "In here."  
  
Despite her gentleness, Dom reacted instinctively, snapping to the defense of his young friend without consideration or thought. "What he is inside," he retorted with more gruffness than he'd ever used with this woman before, "is a good man who's given a whole lot more for his country than anyone should ever have to." She dropped her eyes, her obvious distress defusing the automatic reaction more effectively than anything else could have. "He's a good kid, Megan," he continued on in a softer tone. "Why don't you like him?"  
  
Her protest was low and sad. "I wish I didn't like him, Dom. That's the problem." He raised a quizzical brow, and she swallowed, running both hands through her frizzy blonde hair. "If I don't like someone, I still read them but not as strongly; when there's no affinity, I can build a mental wall, sometimes even shut them out altogether."  
  
"But you can't shut String out and you want to," Santini interpreted, knowing he was correct when she shuddered again.  
  
She nodded, a single tear tracking her already smeared makeup. "He hurts, Dom. All of the time. It colors every single thing he thinks about or does. Even when he smiles it's only to cover up that ache inside. The only time it even eased was when he was flying that black helicopter thing and people were shooting at us! Dom, he enjoyed that part!"  
  
Dom felt his own gut constrict at this unwelcome if not unexpected insight into his foster son's soul. "He's a soldier," he explained gently, knowing it made no difference to Megan. "Just like me."  
  
"Not just like you, Dom." The school teacher shook her head vehemently, begging his understanding. "Not just like you. You do what you have to do and let the rest go. He never lets go. It's there -- it's all there -- all of the ghosts, all of the time. And every time he's near me I have to feel every one of them!" She broke off suddenly, realizing that she was raising her voice above the murmur they'd been maintaining. "Just don't bring him back, okay?"  
  
Dom allowed her to kiss his cheek, then made his way back to the jeep, keeping a troubled eye on his younger colleague as he neared it. Long association told him the precise moment String became aware of his presence; the younger pilot did not move but the aura of readiness increased perceptibly, then faded when the approacher was identified. By my footsteps, probably, Dom guessed, an unwilling smile tugging his lips. Kid has ears like a ... er ... hawk.  
  
He slid into the driver's seat, turning to catch the single blue eye regarding him through barely cracked brown lashes. He nodded solemnly and concentrated on starting the engine. "Thought you were asleep."  
  
Hawke closed his eyes again, smothering a yawn with one hand. "Tired but I can't drift off. When is Megan coming up?"  
  
Dom threw the jeep into gear and pulled out into the street, using the traffic as an excuse to keep his face averted. "She isn't," he said casually. "Turns out she hates fish."  
  
"She still mad at me?" Hawke asked, opening both eyes to stare at Dom's profile.  
  
Dom laughed heartily, slapping his friend's knee. "Naw, kid, you didn't do anything wrong. Nothing wrong at all...."  
  
*** 


	15. Chapter 15

CHiPs patrolwoman Caitlin O'Shaunessey eased the Police helicopter down next to the red, white and blue painted hangar that housed Santini Air with the ease of long practice. Now only ten o'clock in the morning, she and her partner had already been on duty three hours, having participated in the capture of an unimaginative jewel thief who'd tried to use a stolen ice cream truck to make his escape. The felon had led them a merry chase, his lights-flashing, bell-ringing vehicle zipping up major arteries and down side streets until he'd been cornered at a construction site and arrested. All in all, Caitlin had confessed to Gutierrez, it would have been an amusing experience if not for the constant worry about her missing friends.  
  
The chopper touched down and O'Shaunessey cut the engine, then glanced around at the automobiles, planes and helicopters queued neatly in their respective slots. "Sure do miss this place," she told her companion, pulling off her head mike and hooking it on the radio. "Had some good times with some good friends here."  
  
Ramon Gutierrez patted her arm familiarly. They'd become close during the three months they'd been paired, and had developed a comfortable working relationship both in the air and on the ground. She credited him with helping her get over the deaths of her two friends, and providing unquestioned support while she put her life back in balance. "I heard of Santini and Hawke," he remarked, hanging his own headphones on the fuel mixture knob. "You never mentioned this Coldsmith-Briggs dude."  
  
"Michael? Guess ah always considered him a little too top secret to chit- chat about." Caitlin's green eyes grew appreciative. "Ummm-um. Real charmer, that one, though. As sly and cunning as a rattlesnake, but before he's through, he'll have you thanking him for biting you. Handsome as they come, too," she went on dreamily. "Always dressed in white. And with that blond hair...." She sighed, earning herself a grin.  
  
"Thought I detected more than a comradely interest in this case," Gutierrez baited her amiably, his white teeth flashing in the sunlight. "Miss Hot Pants."  
  
Cait shot her partner a glare. "You have such a way with words," she scolded. "And no, Michael wasn't my type ... exactly. Mah momma always said that getting involved with a spy guaranteed you'd end up alone on Saturday night. 'Course," she added, blushing despite herself, "with all the beautiful women Michael had working for him, he never even looked in my direction."  
  
Ramon made a great show out of looking her trim figure up and down. "That's something I doubt." He made a tsk'ing sound, but no move to assist while she secured the helicopter. "Must've been that Hawke guy you were hot for. C'mon, tell Papa. It was Stringfellow Hawke you had the hot pants for, wasn't it?"  
  
Much to both their surprise, Caitlin's blush faded as quickly as it had come. She shook her head seriously. "Can't tell you I wasn't attracted to Hawke when I first met him. He's a real good lookin' boy with a lot of qualities you have to admire. Honest and brave an' he's got a streak of kindness in him that he doesn't let most people see. I ... guess I can admit that in the beginning I used all my womanly wiles to turn his head. But...."  
  
"But?" Gutierrez prodded. His Hispanic accent grew stronger while he stared at her with more absorption than a perfectly innocent question might merit. "He was cold to you?"  
  
"Worse -- he was nice to me."  
  
Gutierrez blinked. "Whadd'a ya mean by that?"  
  
She sighed. "String's been burned more than a couple'a times -- enough to make him shy as a yearling about getting involved emotionally. Nine times out of ten, if he's attracted to a lady, he gives 'em the cold shoulder to chase 'em away."  
  
"He treated you like a sister, right?" Ramon guessed.  
  
She gave vent to an unlady-like snort. "Which used to make me mad as a hornet. When there's no sparks coming back, it's almost easier if a boy treats you like dirt than like a sister. Got over that one quick enough, anyway."  
  
Neither made a move to leave the chopper; Ramon regarded his partner with a great deal more perception than she was used to seeing in him. "You sound relieved," was his only comment.  
  
"Maybe I am." Cait bit her lip, choosing her words carefully, as though it were important for him to understand. "String isn't exactly what you'd call a 'fun' guy, know what I mean? He carries too much hurt in him that he can't seem to let go. It ate him away inside when his brother was missing in action, and now that Dom's gone.... Well, he's been grim and sad ever since I met him; doesn't look like it's in him any more to let go of the past."  
  
"Gave up hope?"  
  
She smiled a little shyly. "I used to think that maybe when he got his Saint John back, Hawke'd lighten up a bit and we might share some of those sparks that weren't around before. After my pride recovered from the sister bit, I started to realize that getting involved with him wouldn't be the best thing for me, anyway, not if I ever wanted to have that normal life, husband and kids my mother's always dreamed about."  
  
A light plane swooped low over the airport, the sound of the engines drowning out Gutierrez' response. He waited until it had passed, then pushed sunglasses up onto his dark curly hair and regarded her with roguish brown eyes. "If you're giving up on that boy, you could always make a play for his brother. That Saint John guy was a little quiet, but he struck me as having a bit of a sense of humor. Or how about Rivers? He don't quit, you know?"  
  
She punched her partner in the arm. "Kind'a like some guys I could mention who live on bad jokes."  
  
Ramon brightened. "Speaking of jokes, did you hear the one about--?"  
  
"Yes," Cait returned firmly, unsnapping her seat harness. "C'mon. Let's go see if they've heard anything about String and Michael."  
  
Following the sounds of strident voices, the two made their way back through the hangar. The words became clearer the closer they got to the office Caitlin had once shared with two very special friends.  
  
"... hate just sitting around here!" That was Saint John Hawke's slightly nasal bellow, exasperation clear in his tones. "We should be helping in the investigation, or at least at the Lair finishing the repairs."  
  
Rivers response was quieter but still with an undertone of the frustration that marked the older man. "Take it easy, buddy. Locke wanted to see us before we left for--" He broke off as O'Shaunessey and Gutierrez appeared in the entrance. "'Lo!"  
  
"'Lo, yourself," Caitlin returned, whipping her sunglasses off her pert nose. "We wuz just flyin' by ..."  
  
"... and decided to drop in," Mike finished, rotating the desk chair around to face them. Although his wavy blond locks were impeccably combed, his white sports shirt and brown slacks showed evidence of having been hastily tossed on. "If you're looking for an update, forget it. We haven't heard a word. Something that he ..." He jerked a thumb in the standing Saint John's direction. "... isn't taking too well, if you get my drift."  
  
Caitlin scanned the elder Hawke brother narrowly. He was even less groomed than Mike this morning, his white t-shirt and jeans were wrinkled, his short bronze hair standing up in spikes. There were circles under the gray eyes as well that adequately bespoke a night of wakefully sitting by a phone. "I get 'cha," she drawled sympathetically. "Lost a little sleep myself. Where's Jo got to?"  
  
When it became apparent that Hawke was not going to answer, Mike swung his feet up onto the desk, twisting his body to see around them. "Charter," he supplied, waggling his fingers in Caitlin's direction. "It was a short one and she was antsy, so she decided to take it. She'll be back in about an hour."  
  
The phone chose that moment to ring, and four heads swivelled towards it. Mike, already at the desk, stretched a long arm around the parts, rough diagrams and tools that littered its surface, and picked up the receiver. "Santini Air," he rapped. He paused, then nodded. "Right. We'll see you soon." He hung up, lifting his head to scan the expectant faces around him. "That was Jason. He's on his way."  
  
"He heard something?" Saint John asked hopefully, his breath increasing in tempo.  
  
Mike shrugged and leaned forward to rest his chin in his supporting palms. "He wouldn't talk on the phone. Should be here in about fifteen minutes, though. He sounded like something was up."  
  
Hawke checked the aviator's watch on his right wrist. "It's about time. It's after ten now."  
  
Caitlin looked from one man to the other; when they only stared back at her, she prodded, "You haven't heard anything about String and Michael since last night?"  
  
Hawke threw himself into the nearest visitor's chair and slid down until he was sitting on his spine. "Nothing. Jason was supposed to call the minute Pamela checked in, but until now we haven't heard a word."  
  
"Undercover work can be tricky that way," Ramon remarked, stepping around Caitlin to perch on the cluttered desk. "I worked Vice a few years ago, and I know that sometimes you just can't get to a phone for normal check-in times."  
  
Caitlin stowed her sunglasses into the breast pocket of her CHiPs uniform, and raised sympathetic green eyes. "Ramon and I questioned everyone we could at Ling-Ling's -- not that patrons of that sleazy joint make themselves readily available. Only person who saw anything and will admit to it is a dancer named Chastity -- a pretty improbable name from the looks of her."  
  
"She saw who kidnapped String?" Hawke asked, gray eyes showing a single spark of hope; it died when Caitlin shook her head.  
  
"Chastity remembered seeing a man in a white suit with an eye patch; that would be Michael. She said he tipped her a five and was flashy looking. She couldn't recall his companion too well; he sat back against the wall in a shadow."  
  
"She did say that some homo at the bar made a pass at him," Ramon added helpfully.  
  
"Ah don't think homo is a politically correct term for a cop to use," Caitlin chastised more from habit than immediate interest.  
  
Mike quirked a brow humorously, obviously taken by the mental image of the hard-edged Stringfellow Hawke being propositioned by another man. "Wish I'd've seen that one," he smirked. "Talk about hot ammo!"  
  
Saint John was too gone with worry to be amused. He ignored his facetious teammate, steady gaze boring into the woman like daggers. "Did she remember anything about that man? What he looked like? Was he a regular?"  
  
Caitlin tightened her thin lips, her negative regretful. "The dancer thinks he followed them out the back door but that's about it. She was kind of out of it -- drugs or alcohol, I don't know which, and no one else noticed anything."  
  
"Drugs and alcohol," Gutierrez said, dark eyes narrow with grim knowledge. He brushed his shaggy mustache with one finger, smoothing the strands over his upper lip. "I ran into a lot like her when I was working Vice. Her mind is pretty well gone by now. It's a miracle she could tell us as much as she did."  
  
O'Shaunessey picked up again. "We got us another problem. My friend Jack in forensics went over the cars, the bar -- the whole durned area -- pretty thoroughly before the order squashing my request came down. Ramon and I were supposed to see him this morning on the Q.T." She paused. "Jack wasn't around; seems he's temporarily attached to another unit for a while, and is under a gag order not to talk to either Ramon or me."  
  
"Officers' reports?" Locke asked.  
  
Ramon shook his head. "Gone. Even the computer records were wiped clean from outside the department."  
  
Caitlin cast a look at her partner, who was staring grimly at the top of the desk. "Ramon and I already got orders to let the Feds handle anything new from here on. I sense stinky cover-up here."  
  
Saint John absorbed all this ardently, as though therein lay some clue to his brother's whereabouts. He clenched and unclenched one big fist, stress making a muscle in his long jaw jump. "We shouldn't be sitting here; we should be out there looking."  
  
"Looking where?" Gutierrez asked reasonably, still stroking his mustache. "Looking for what?" He raised his free hand, palm up. "Try to stay cool, man. We can't do anything without something more to go on."  
  
"Wait? That's my brother out there," Saint John growled, slamming his fist into his thigh with what must have been bruising force. "String's in bad trouble -- I can feel it! He needs me." This last was offered in a mumble too low for the rest to hear. He blinked, straightened his shoulders and went on louder, "He never gave up on me. There's no way I'm going to give up on him."  
  
"We aren't sayin' you should give up!" O'Shaunessey protested, touching his arm gently. "We're not giving up, either. Them boys are friends of mine, too, you know."  
  
"Cait's right." Her partner lifted one shoulder fractionally. "I meant you shouldn't wear yourself out when there's nothing you can do yet. So," he resumed after a moment, making an obvious attempt at distracting conversation. "This Stringfellow is your younger brother, isn't he? You much older'n him?"  
  
"Four-five years older than his baby brother," Mike interjected mischievously, falling in with the patrolman's design on breaking the uncomfortable tension. "His tag along. His shadow. His...."  
  
Hawke, not unaware of their intentions, jerked upright, nervous energy carrying him in a circuit of the room. "You will insist on calling him that, won't you, Mike," he said, an involuntary smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.  
  
Rivers crossed his ankles on the desk, interlacing his fingers behind his head. Although also visibly worried, his laugh was light hearted and carried a thread of friendly humor. "Blame yourself, pal. You were the one that squealed that you and that Taggert guy used to call him that in 'Nam."  
  
"If I'd only known," the bigger blond groaned, lifting his face appealingly to the heavens. "Sooner or later you're going to forget and call him that to his face."  
  
"He'll slam your butt all the way to Albuquerque," Cait chuckled, resting her hands lightly on her slim hips.  
  
Rivers shrugged modestly. "Welllll, he'll probably try." He stopped and cleared his throat. "But, maybe we shouldn't mention it to him anyway. I ... uh ... wouldn't want to, like, cause a family squabble or anything."  
  
"Especially the anything," Caitlin confided to Saint John, who had wandered in her direction. "I doubt String would believe his ears, anyway." She frowned, a stray thought shadowing her elfin features. "Wait a minute ... Taggert? Mace Taggert?"  
  
Saint John cut his gaze in her direction, brightening at the name. "You know Mace? He, String and I were pretty tight in 'Nam. Mace was like another brother." When she only looked at him sadly, he licked his lips. "Mace...?"  
  
"Dead." Caitlin dropped her eyes then forcibly raised them again to meet his. "String had to kill him 'bout a year ago. It was self-defense but he took it real hard."  
  
"Mace. Dead." Hawke repeated the words as though he couldn't quite grasp their meaning. Denial sprang a negative to his lips immediately. "String couldn't hurt Mace any more than I could -- any more than Mace could hurt one of us. We were as close as...."  
  
Caitlin touched his arm, immediately withdrawing, sensing the contact would not be welcome. "Mace Taggert was dealing in armaments. This time he had stolen a prototype gunship named HX-1 that was every bit as deadly as Airwolf. He was going to turn it over to another country for the money. He had to be stopped." She withdrew a step from the stunned, hurt gaze that pierced her. "Dom told me Taggert blamed Hawke for leaving you both over in Viet Nam all those years ago. He was gonna kill them both."  
  
Had she deliberately chosen that phrase as the one thing that would banish the hurt disbelief from his face, she succeeded admirably. Saint John Hawke's jaw tightened, gray eyes becoming bits of glittering steel. "He had no right to lay that on String. With dozens of lives at stake, the kid had no choice."  
  
"We may mix like gasoline and a match," Mike interjected carefully, "but I would never've pegged him for someone who would desert his unit. He didn't lose us on that last mission in Mexico, he wouldn't do it in a firefight in Viet Nam."  
  
Saint John swung on him with a single flash of gratitude for the words in his brother's defense. "String never ran from anything in his life. He was forced into making a lousy decision -- the right decision. I ... I hate to think what he had to pay for it all these years." He swallowed hard and turned a fierce look on Caitlin. "He shouldn't have had to."  
  
The woman raised a conciliatory hand. "Whoa, pard. You don't have to tell me that. Ah know the boy, remember?" She hesitated, slipping carefully into something she obviously feared being rebuffed from. "You might want to talk to Hawke ... String about it, though. He blamed himself for a long time after that."  
  
"I will." And he would -- everyone there could see that.  
  
Again seeking a change to a safer subject, Caitlin glanced at the parts- strewn desk with an experienced eye. "This here's the initiator circuit, ain't it? What happened, take a shell through the ADF pod?" She frowned. "I think you're rewiring that A-B module wrong. It should be charging this loop here instead of draining it."  
  
"That's my girl," Gutierrez chuckled, winking at Mike.  
  
"I was just about to say that myself," Rivers retorted huffily, carefully folding the diagrams and putting them in his pocket. "Give a guy a chance, huh?"  
  
The sound of approaching footsteps forestalled a response. They were harbinger of the appearance of the tall, broad shouldered DNS agent who was acting as liaison with the Airwolf team. Jason Locke was dressed nattily once again in a navy blue suit, white shirt and red tie. His short black curls gleamed with oil under the artificial lights, his mustache, shorter and neater than Gutierrez', looked to have been recently trimmed.  
  
"You have news?" Hawke demanded, pouncing on the man almost before he'd fully entered the door.  
  
Jason didn't answer at first. He ignored Rivers' irreverent greeting, nodded amiably at the two highway patrolmen, and crossed to one of the naugahyde visitors' chairs scattered around the perimeter of the office. He hiked the knees of his trousers up to sit, then changed his mind and smoothed them again, turning to face the tall pilot on a level.  
  
"Jason," Saint John gritted, gray eyes pleading. "Have you heard anything about my brother?"  
  
Locke, never one for beating around the bush, shook his head curtly. "Only indirectly," he began without preamble. "At this point, it's not good news, either."  
  
"You heard from Pamela," Caitlin guessed, moving to stand behind the desk where she could see the black man's face more clearly.  
  
The agent hesitated. "We heard about Pamela," he corrected her grimly, "from the Los Angeles Police Department. They found her body in a field two miles from LAX. She'd been beaten to death."  
  
"We didn't hear about that," Ramon said, puzzled. "I put in the inter- departmental information request myself. It came back marked File Empty."  
  
"Did it?" Jason murmured. "That's interesting. I happened to have a paid contact within the LAPD who notified me. I wonder if I would have heard anything at all without her?"  
  
Hawke stood frozen, his face draining. "Bishop Morris," he breathed, again clenching his fist. "Back in 'Nam he used to enjoy beating then raping the village women. It was how he got his kicks."  
  
"But was it just sex or did he make her as an agent?" Caitlin asked, unconsciously resting one hand on Mike's shoulder. When he glanced quizzically up at her, she flushed and stepped back a pace. "Ah meant, identify her as an agent," she snapped, in no mood to be teased.  
  
"I know what you meant," he returned somberly, also stricken by the death of the pretty agent.  
  
Locke studied the pitted surface of the desk for a moment. "According to preliminary reports, she'd been systematically beaten but not sexually assaulted. There's no indication she made any effort to defend herself." He shook his head regretfully. "She couldn't have suspected anything. She was a good agent; if there had been an opportunity to take any one of them down with her, she would have done it."  
  
Hawke's thin lips were a solid line across his face, his features so hard they might have been carved out of stone. "Then they were expecting her," he said through his teeth. "You have a leak somewhere, Jason."  
  
"Or we do," Mike interjected, staring meaningfully at Ramon Gutierrez.  
  
It took a moment for this to sink in. When it did, the patrolman leaped to his feet, brown eyes blazing. "Don't try to pin this on me," he snarled. "Until yesterday I never had nothing to do with your lousy spy organization."  
  
"Ramon isn't your leak." Caitlin stepped from behind Mike, again touching his shoulder. "I've worked with the man for three months now and I'd know if he was a dirty cop." Rivers glanced speculatively up at her, and she repeated tartly, "I'd know it. And ah've worked with the Firm and Airwolf too long to be suspected now."  
  
Before Rivers could respond to that, Locke held up a arresting hand. "She's right, Major. I ran a check on them both yesterday; they came up clean."  
  
"Thank you for the endorsement," Gutierrez retorted sarcastically. "May I put that on my resumé?" His heavy brows remained bridged in a frown, but his muscles relaxed fractionally, the potentially explosive situation defused for the moment.  
  
"Maybe it's not a leak," Caitlin hazarded, speaking as much to herself as the room. "Maybe Pamela just made an error? Gave herself away?"  
  
Locke shook his head although maintaining his erect stance. "Pamela Billingsley was one of the finest field operatives Archangel had. She wouldn't have made a mistake on an undercover assignment." He pursed his full lips, eyes hooded and still locked on Saint John's. "I'm afraid Hawke is right. We've got a leak in the Company."  
  
"How many people knew her assignment?" Mike asked, shooting Gutierrez one last look before dismissing him.  
  
This time Locke did sit. It looked like it was an effort to pry his gaze away from Hawke's searching one, but he succeeded, resting his dark eyes on the computer equipment standing against the far wall. "Too many people were involved. Several from Archangel's section, a couple from my own. I called in a team from the security department to give me an independent check on the personnel, but so far, whoever was involved has covered his tracks beautifully."  
  
Saint John studied the floor intently. "Who actually arranged the meeting between String and Michael?" he asked, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Were you able to track at least that much down?"  
  
Locke made a motion with his right hand, then folded both in his lap. "I questioned Archangel's communications officer, Sun Li, personally. She received a coded message from Stringfellow changing the site from his cabin to Ling-Ling's, and that's all she knows."  
  
Saint John's head jerked up at that. "Who else would have access to my brother's codes?"  
  
Locke stared steadily at him. "Someone with a higher clearance than Sun Li. I checked her log-in sheet -- she definitely received a communique with Hawke's confirmation codes changing the meeting location. What we can't prove is where the message originated; there's no record of it incoming on the switchboards, nor do we know who actually made contact with Stringfellow."  
  
"Then we've got a dead end," Mike remarked, shooting Hawke an apologetic glance. "Sorry, buddy."  
  
Jason shook his head firmly. "Not yet. This scheme is too complicated for there to be no loose ends to trace. My next priority will be to check all the computer records and find out who ordered the police department to drop the case, and who was capable of erasing the records of the investigation. It's tedious and will take time, but it should turn up something eventually."  
  
Hawke swallowed heavily, his next statement made without much hope. "So until or unless it does, we're back to square one."  
  
"Not completely." Locke waited until he had all their attention before speaking again, his clasped hands tightening. "Pamela was a brave woman. She managed to leave us one piece of information. It was scrawled on her own skin with something sharp, possibly while she was dying."  
  
Gutierrez put the question into words spoken through a dry throat. "What information?"  
  
"A single word: Horn. It could be some kind of project code name. We're checking the files for a possible connection with Michael, but...."  
  
He broke off at an audible gasp from Caitlin. Her mouth gaped open, horror etching her elfin face deeply. "John Bradford Horn," she breathed, fingers flying to her lips. "Oh, mah--" Horror became a rage that contorted her pretty features. "Ah should've figured that desert rat was behind all this."  
  
"John Bradford Horn ... the billionaire industrialist?" Mike exclaimed, surprise bringing his feet down off the desk. "Why would he want to kidnap two Government agents?"  
  
Caitlin touched the gun holstered at her hip, her fingers caressing its hard stock as though she wanted nothing more than to use it. "Horn's already made two tries at getting Airwolf. First time he used that tramp daughter of his as bait. She tricked Hawke -- I mean, String -- into flying to her father's mansion. Then Horn used some kind'a drug on him -- brainwashed him into shooting Dom and giving him Airwolf." She shifted slightly until she was addressing the frowning Saint John. "The second time was a little more straightforward; he used plain ol' violence. Ended up killing some poor woman who didn't deserve what she got."  
  
Gutierrez cocked his head curiously. "What's an Airwolf?" Everyone in the room turned to stare at him, obviously having forgotten he was there. "Just thought I'd ask," he added lamely, raising both hands in a placating gesture.  
  
"Airwolf is a top secret weapon," Locke answered, telling the man as little as possible. "Something you're going to forget about the minute you walk out of this room." His face eased at the patrolman's nod. "Archangel's unit has APB's out on Bishop Morris; I'll have them issue another one for Horn. All we can do now is wait for something to break."  
  
"It's dead certain Horn will be warned that we're looking for him," Mike pointed out with deceptive casualness. "He'll be prepared for us."  
  
"It won't do him any good," Saint John returned grimly, and there was a frost in his gray eyes that bespoke a certainty more chilling than the threat. "If he's hurt String, there isn't enough preparation in the world to keep me from killing him with my own hands."  
  
*** 


	16. Chapter 16

Bishop Morris' origin was the tough southside territories of Chicago, where he learned at an early age that inflicting pain was infinitely preferable to receiving it. This tenet had served him well in his generally abusive neighborhood; Bishop, however, did it one better by learning to enjoy inflicting pain, something which established his reputation with concrete solidity. Not content with ruling the streets by terror via the gang he'd founded at age fourteen, he extended his thirst for domination to the lustful side of his nature, finding sex without violence bland, and enjoying his greatest release in the mere act of brutality.  
  
When he was nineteen he'd joined the United States Army to remove himself from the attentions of a police lieutenant intent on taking him down for a juvenile murder, ending up in Viet Nam after qualifying, much to the astonishment of everyone concerned including himself, as a helicopter pilot. Once overseas he'd discovered war to be the perfect medium for both his talents and his tastes. As a pilot he'd been able to indulge both basically at will, continuing as a mercenary at war's end and earning a great deal of money in the process.  
  
Now under exclusive contract to the Machiavellian industrialist named John Bradford Horn, Bishop Morris was able to give fullest expansion to the practice of death he'd learned since infancy and, a less arrogant man might have admitted, learn a bit about combat and manipulative strategy in the bargain from a Master. Of course, a less arrogant man would not have been Bishop Morris.  
  
Early morning found the mercenary driving his rented Lincoln Towncar through an iron gate and up a long drive bordered by manicured gardens, green despite the desert heat. A quarter mile farther on and he slowed to examine the exquisite stucco and tile work comprising the exterior of his employer's mansion. It looked far smaller than it's true size, having been built on multi-levels, two of which were underground.  
  
A silent sentry took his keys at the door and ushered him inside, directing him to the study in which Hawke and Archangel had been entertained two days earlier. Small black eyes examined the lush interior avariciously, from the obviously expensive paintings on the wall to the precious metal inlays decorating the furniture. "Maybe I should'a worn a tux," he mumbled, wiping his hands on his sweaty black sportshirt. He dropped his gaze to the expensive cocoa carpet, to where his sneakers had tracked brown dirt from the door. He hastily scuffed at the tracks with his toe, spinning at the sound of a throaty chuckle from the door.  
  
"Forget about the carpet, Mr. Morris." John Bradford Horn stood in the entryway, regarding the black mercenary with droll condescension. His own clothing, as usual, was impeccable; the white silk shirt shone like a pearl, his charcoal slacks creased to a knife's edge. "Once I'm gone this building will be burned to the ground."  
  
"A little drastic, ain't that?" the other retorted, eying the expensive etching on one wall with blatant greed. "Man could live real comfortable in a place like this. Real comfortable." He pulled a cigar from his breast pocket, biting off the tip and spitting it carelessly on that same rug he'd just admired. "Waste."  
  
Horn watched this display with revulsion, one lip curling. "The building is unimportant. Erasing all evidence of my presence here is not. He eyed Morris meaningfully. "I don't leave loose ends. Ever."  
  
Although the black man's complexion didn't betray him, a sweat broke out on his broad features at the implication, running down his forehead into his beard. "If you talkin' 'bout the girl," he began hotly, his speech degenerating to the street slang he'd grown up with, "I did her myself. She ain't tellin' no one nothin'."  
  
"Wrong." The word was uttered with so much animosity that even the battle hardened Morris retreated a step. Horn stalked the bigger man fearlessly, blue eyes very cold. "However she managed, Miss Pamela Billingsley did manage to relay one very vital piece of information." He paused, pronouncing through gritted teeth, "My name."  
  
Morris stared at the industrialist, startled, then deliberately stuck his cigar between yellowed teeth and reached into his jeans for a light. "That ain't possible," he returned calmly, uncowed by the inherent menace in this elegant man. "I took care of Miss Pamela personally." Satisfaction lit his face, thick lips drawing back from the cigar. "If I wasn't in a hurry, we might have had some fun -- more fun, that is. As it was...." His smile broadened under his beard. "Let's just say it was good for me."  
  
"Perhaps you should have concentrated less on 'fun' and more on accomplishing your purpose," Horn returned coldly, retreating in turn when Morris struck a match and puffed his cigar to life. "In case it hasn't penetrated your thick skull, the Department of National Security is now after us both. Billingsley was one of Archangel's people. They're already cognizant of your identity...."  
  
"No go," the other interrupted, spewing a cloud of noxious smoke in Horn's direction. "I lost them with the woman. She's dead."  
  
"She wasn't dead enough when you left her." Horn stopped, taking a slow, deep breath and releasing it. "What's passed is passed, and I have made allowances on every level for such ... occurrences. However, this does remove an element of flexibility from the timetable. We go after Airwolf today or we call it a draw, kill the prisoners and move on."  
  
The big mercenary shrugged disinterestedly and began to wander the room, ignoring the shelves of books lining the walls and beelining for a platinum watch set carelessly on a side table. "Too bad Airwolf is booby trapped or we could off the kid now and just take the ship. Oh, well. As long as Stringfellow Hawke does go down eventually, I can wait on the pleasure."  
  
Horn watched him narrowly. "You knew him in the Army."  
  
"Yeah. I knew him in Viet Nam. Some, anyway." He picked up the expensive timepiece, turning it over and over in his meaty fist. "Couldn't stand him. He was one of Colonel Vidor's Golden Boys."  
  
Horn raised a brow. "Colonel Vidor?"  
  
"Marty Vidor. He was my commanding officer for about a month before I transferred into Colonel Curtis' new team. It was Vidor who recruited that Hawke kid to the front line work. Not that I'd've taken him -- kid looked like he was fourteen years old when he first came over."  
  
"He wasn't that much older," Horn remarked. Leather creaked loudly as he threw himself into one corner of the sofa. "He was one of the youngest pilots in Viet Nam. And perhaps the best. That's why he was chosen for the Airwolf Project."  
  
Morris' face tightened; he turned abruptly to stand over the lounging Horn, scratching roughly at the long scar along his jawline. "He wasn't any better than I was. He wouldn't'a even made it into Vidor's command if not for that hotshot big brother of his calling in a few debts."  
  
The industrialist picked up a silver cigarette case from the end table. The aroma of fine tobacco rose when he opened it, to be lost in the dense atmosphere being put out by the cigar. "You mean Saint John Hawke?" he inquired mildly. "I understand he's nearly as good a pilot as Stringfellow."  
  
Morris made a disgusted noise in his throat. "All that Boy Scout was packing was a rep. Him and another guy, Mace Taggert, used to work partners in combat, to up their number of AV's -- air victories. They worked together against me too, conspired to get me transferred out so the boy could join the unit."  
  
"It worked to your advantage. According to my sources with the DEA, about that time they began to suspect you of major league drug trafficking in and out of the Golden Triangle." Horn held out his hand, waiting until Morris had reluctantly deposited the watch in it, then slipped it on his own wrist and tightened the band. "You recruited several of your colleagues back then, didn't you? Although, I feel it safe to presume the Hawkes were not among them."  
  
Again Morris growled something and turned away. "Like I said, Boy Scouts. I might'a been able to use the kid, but Saint John kept him under his thumb." Once more he fingered the long scar under his chin, his heavy jowls folding down to conceal it from casual view. "I'm pretty sure Saint John was the one that set up the drug sting that almost took me out in Saigon. I shed a few tears when he went down in V.C. territory; I wanted to take him down myself and didn't get the chance."  
  
Horn's smile was slow and lazy. "Then you don't know?"  
  
"Know what?" the mercenary asked suspiciously.  
  
"That Saint John Hawke is not dead. Is, in fact, doing quite well as one of Airwolf's pilots."  
  
Astonishment blanked Bishop Morris' broad features for a moment, then a malicious light began to glow in his dark eyes. "So, I get my shot after all. Compared to what I'm going to do to my old Army buddy, what happened to sweet little Pamela is going to look like a love tap." The light brightened accompanied by a cruel grin. "Thought I'd only have fun with the kid, but with his big brother back, I get to double my pleasure, double my fun."  
  
"So long," the other returned firmly, tapping ash into a ceramic dish, "as it neither interferes with the mission nor takes too long. Remember well, Mr. Morris, that as of sundown, my people and I shall be out of the country. If you're not with us, you become a loose end very like this house."  
  
***  
  
Bishop Morris followed John Horn down several corridors and two levels to the far wing of the house, then through a sliding door into a lab. It was a sterile looking environment as were most of the research areas here, white painted and tiled, the steel equipment reflecting the eery blue lights of monitors and overhead fluorescent glare.  
  
In the middle of it all, Stringfellow Hawke lay on a narrow hospital gurney, his face as stark as the linens, his blue eyes open and cloudy. Two male orderlies dressed him in jeans and the dirty white sweater he'd arrived in, while the oriental lab technician, Lydia, finished tying fresh gauze around his hands. He lay motionless and unheeding while they worked on him, his vague attention focussed on the dark haired feminine figure that bent so close as to stir his hair with her breath.  
  
"Be very quiet," Horn warned the black pilot as they entered. "Anastasia is reinforcing the conditioning for the final time. Any misconceptions must be weeded out before we release him to fetch Airwolf."  
  
"... compromised and Airwolf will be lost," Zarkov was saying in that husky voice she could use so effectively. "Tell me you understand."  
  
Hawke blinked at her, seemingly fascinated by the movement of her unpainted but still ruby lips. "Airwolf will be lost," he dutifully repeated from a throat long ago screamed raw.  
  
"So you must move Airwolf to the new hiding place to protect her," Zarkov went on, stroking the damp brown hair gently. Hawke whimpered as though that had prefaced great pain in the past; she touched him again soothingly. "You remember where the new hiding place is, don't you? Where Airwolf will be safe?"  
  
Breath hissed through Hawke's teeth, his blue eyes wide like those of a trapped animal, but he nodded jerkily once. "Tell me where," she ordered. His cracked lips parted, then closed. He shook his head and Zarkov sighed. "I understand, Stringfellow. You can't tell locations, can you? Then I shall tell you, my darling, and then the pain will stop. The main hangar at Larchmont Airfield, outside of Las Vegas. I'm right, am I not?" This time his nod was as much relief as anything, a great pressure released when the dark haired woman smiled. "Very good. Airwolf will be safe there. But you cannot do it alone, can you?"  
  
"Dom...." The young man whimpered again, face twisting with grief.  
  
Zarkov took his head in both hands, again forcing eye contact. "Dominic Santini is not here. You need a backup pilot. Who is it going to be?"  
  
"C-can't be ... Saint John." The grief struck again, and this time tears gathered in the cloudy blue eyes, trailing down his temples and dampening the psychologist's hands. "Not really ... him, is it? Like before." His face hardened. "Like Dom."  
  
"No, Stringfellow," she crooned. "He's not your brother but another impostor. Just like before, and just like Dom. Who else is there to help you?"  
  
He sniffed, brow wrinkled in thought. "Army pilot ... from 'Nam. Morris. I can trust him. But...?"  
  
She nipped that doubtful interrogative by giving him a little shake. "But nothing. You can trust Bishop Morris. He will be going with you. He is your only hope of protecting Airwolf. Say it."  
  
Hawke reached up, touching one of the hands holding his face still, seeking any source of comfort in his pain filled world, even that offered by his torturer. "Morris only hope. Get the Lady to safety. Have to or Saint John...." He stopped, looking puzzled, and Zarkov hurriedly revised the remainder of the thought.  
  
"Airwolf is the only important thing right now," she said, still using a firm voice. "Or everything is lost." Seeing the acknowledgment in his face, she released him and stepped back, holding out her hand; Lydia placed a hypodermic in it, already filled with an amber fluid. "This is a pain killer, Stringfellow," she said, showing him the needle. "I have mixed in a stimulant as well so that you will be able to function for a while." She pressed the needle into his arm and compressed the plunger; instantly, some of the tension left her victim's slender body, leaving him looking limp but more alert. "How do you feel?"  
  
He nodded wearily, and she gestured Morris closer. Horn held back slightly, carefully keeping himself out of range so Hawke would not see the both of them together. "You remember Bishop Morris, don't you, Stringfellow?"  
  
Morris stepped into Hawke's field of view, thick lips offering a less than sincere smile through his beard. "How ya doin', Golden Boy?" he asked in a hearty tone. "Haven't seen you since I was flying with Saint John in 'Nam."  
  
"Saint John." Hawke's raspy voice caught over the name. He swallowed and turned appealing eyes on the large black man, visually tracing the long scar that marked the thick chin up to the ragged-edged ear. "I-I need help. Got to save ... can't get Saint John back without...."  
  
Morris obligingly bent closer. "Without what, kid?"  
  
Again Hawke balked at giving away the word. "Help me?" he begged, raising a hand. "For Saint John?"  
  
Morris smiled wider. "'Course I'll help you, Golden Boy. Remember back in 'Nam? I always called you one of Vidor's Golden Boys. You and that-- I mean, you and Saint John." When Hawke's appealing gaze did not waver and Horn jabbed him in the back, Morris simply nodded. "I'll help you fly, Golden Boy. You lead, an' I'll follow."  
  
Hawke relaxed fractionally and made a move to rise. The two orderlies obligingly took him one at each arm and pulled him to his feet. He would have fallen had they released their grip; as it was, so clouded was his thinking he barely noticed they were there.  
  
"I want to test this before we send him out, Anastasia." Horn spoke quietly, not having abandoned his post by the door. "A final experiment before he's out of my control."  
  
The woman ran a tired hand through her unbound hair, brushing a strand out of her eyes. "I must advise against it," she said wearily. "You could break the conditioning."  
  
Horn lifted his hand, closing it one finger at a time into a fist. "I feel this one necessary. If it breaks then your conditioning was not quite so solid as you imply. But if Hawke passes my test, I shall know he is truly and irrevocably mine."  
  
*** 


	17. Chapter 17

Three months ago  
  
"Tell String I'll only be gone a couple'a hours."  
  
"Sure, Uncle Dom."  
  
Jo's soprano rang in his ears still as he began the start-up sequence. With the ease of many years' experience he flash scanned the instrument panel -- everything was green on his gauges and lights. He positioned both hands and feet on the controls, waiting impatiently for the rotor to reach take-off rpm. The engine temperature was almost at optimum, where he liked it. Just another few degrees....  
  
What the...? That was String heading toward him at a dead run. What was that he was yelling? Talk about--?  
  
He never heard the explosion. First the fireball was around him then it was under him, crystal blue sky in all other directions. For the briefest instant he thought he saw String's body being tumbled along the tarmac like a rag doll in a high wind, then he saw nothing at all.  
  
*  
  
"String--!" With a start Dominic Santini opened his eyes, jerking upright then flopping weakly back when his limbs refused to participate to keep him there. He'd been asleep for a long time now, and he'd dreamed almost constantly, most of them taking the form of old memories both good and bad. But they were comfortable memories, and lately he'd preferred them to the nightmare wakefulness brought at irregular intervals.  
  
A tiny hand on his shoulder and soft feminine voice urged him to remain where he was, and he complied more out of necessity than cooperation. He blinked several times, finally focusing on the pretty oriental girl staring down at him. A face he'd seen several times in his uncertain ... recent? ... past.  
  
"Stay where you are," the girl admonished again, her slender fingers wrapping around his wrist. "I will go find the doctor in a moment."  
  
Her pink lips moved silently in a count and Dom lay obediently quiet, allowing his memory to sift back. It was a slow process as it always was the first few minutes of consciousness, beginning with a searing pain stabbing deep into his heart. String, boy.... Santini wet lips that were cracked and dry, his voice grating as though from long disuse. "H-how long this time?" he asked wearily, having to forcibly banish the dark horror that threatened to wash him back into the obsidian nothingness he'd just quitted.  
  
The girl ignored that. She always ignored his questions, as though his blood pressure and pulse were the only important things to her. They were all like that -- the therapists, such as they were, the impersonal technicians who'd swarmed over him the first couple of times they'd let him wake up, the physicians. The only one who ever spoke to him was that Russky woman, and she wasn't the most helpful of informants. And there'd been a man in a suit.... He frowned, wishing that face would focus in for him; he felt it was one he would recognize if only he could have had a clear view, but the man had appeared only a few times in the beginning to laugh scornfully at him, then had not returned.  
  
The oriental girl said something, breaking his muddled train of thought, but the words were indistinct, as though she was speaking in a tunnel. "Huh?"  
  
"I said, wait," she repeated louder, this time in his left ear. Oh.  
  
She released his wrist and pulled a sheet up over his shoulders. Her heels clicked on the floor as she left, leaving Dom to stare up at the fluorescent light bulb that stretched half the length of the room. He tilted his right ear upward, striving to hear the buzz of the bulb; nothing. He turned his head, his left ear immediately perceiving the sound he sought. From the blast concussion, probably, he analyzed, trying for the umpteenth time to make sense of his situation. Where was he? He glanced around cautiously, unsurprised to find himself in what resembled a modern hospital ward, for they were the same surroundings that had greeted him every time he'd been dragged from what that Russian doctor had called induced coma. Was it a hospital then? Or was he a prisoner, as his instincts screamed at him?  
  
He took a deep breath and braced himself to take stock of his body ... or what was left of it. Cautiously he raised his arms, letting the sheet fall away. It was still a shock to stare at his right hand -- missing the small and ring fingers clean and part of the third, the rest scarred and gouged by burns and missing flesh. He clenched it, pleased to see the remaining fingers curl into a loose fist. At least he still had use of the thing; a little therapy should return full mobility, the doctor had said.  
  
His left arm was next, relatively uninjured save for the pink lines of scar tissue that dotted it from wrist to shoulder. Using this method he slowly worked his way down his body. The effort involved in lifting his head was horrendous but the relief at finding himself relatively intact worth every the effort. Until.....  
  
"Holy--" he whispered, reaching the end of his scan. He'd known, of course -- they'd told him the first time he'd awakened that his right leg had been mangled by the explosion, his right foot ... gone. They'd told him about the broken bones, too -- an even dozen of them -- as if the agony he'd been in hadn't been enough to tip him off. There was no pain at all now except for a deep ache that started in his skull and radiated through every inch of his body. The woman doctor had broken it all to him gently ... for a Russky. But still it was a shock each and every time he was confronted with the visual.  
  
"I'm a cripple," he croaked, laying his head back on the pillowless cot. "A useless, old cripple." Despair rose to choke him, like acrid bile. He'd never fly again like this, not in Airwolf, not in his own craft, maybe never even walk. "Why did they save me?" he asked, directing the question to a nearby equipment tray. "I'd've been better off dead than like this."  
  
Moisture wet his cheeks and he reached up to wipe it away, feeling the ridges of scar tissue starting on his neck and extending up onto his cheek; his eyes were untouched, blessedly, mercifully, for if he'd ended up blind also, he would most certainly have gone mad. Next he probed his abdomen, his ribs easily felt through the loose skin and untoned muscle that now covered them. He was thin, must've lost fifty pounds. "Glad my old Italian mamma can't see me," he muttered with a weak, semi-hysterical chuckle. "She tried for years to fatten me up. If she'd ever gotten a'hold of String...."  
  
That stopped him cold, that portion of his memory slamming into his conscious like a locomotive through a barrier. String's body being tumbled along the tarmac like a rag doll in a high wind. The explosion would have killed him, rose unbidden. Had to have killed him. He was close enough to have been caught in the main blast. The pain returned, far worse than the loss of his foot was the loss of the boy he'd raised as his own. All gone now, he thought despairingly. Awww, String. First I lost Sally Anne, then Saint John. Now you. I'm sorry, son. I tried to protect you kids the best I could -- most of the time from yourself. Looks like I didn't do a good enough job at it. Hope you and Saint John are at least together. Wouldn't be fair if you were separated even now. Maybe ... maybe I'll be joining you soon?  
  
"Yeah, maybe," he repeated out loud just as the door opened to admit another familiar figure to the room. She was of medium-height and well built, neither voluptuous nor skinny from what Santini could see through the lab coat. Her short, dark brown hair framed a long face and bright brown eyes, and her smile -- she smiled often -- was an exciting cross between gentle maternalism and a sensual caress. "What's up, Doc?" he greeted her with sour humor.  
  
She picked up a chart from a nearby counter, offering him that beautiful, warm smile. "You are, obviously. How are you feeling?"  
  
He shrugged. "I been better."  
  
"And you have been worse," she reminded him, crossing to stand by his cot. She scanned the chart, biting her full lower lip in thought. "From what I can see here, you are doing quite well. The bones have all healed completely and the burned skin has regenerated with a minimum of scarring."  
  
"Ha!" He lifted his arm, turning it so that the ugly pink tissue caught the light. "What do you call this?"  
  
She grasped his hand, forcing it back down to his chest, then patting it soothingly. "I said a minimum, Mr. Santini. With so much of your body burned, some scarring was inevitable. Nothing compared to what you could have had, trust me."  
  
"Why should I?" he demanded, studying her in turn, searching for a clue to her motives, any hint as to what she was up to. She looked tired, he noted, her hair lank, circles under her magnificent eyes as though from overwork or lack of sleep. "That would just make your job easier, wouldn't it?"  
  
"My job?" she probed, dropping the chart on the equipment tray.  
  
He nodded, face stone. "Did you think I didn't know who you are, Doctor Zarkov? Or that I'd forgotten what you did to String almost two years ago?"  
  
Another smile lifted her lips, one of delight. "I didn't realize you had recognized me! How clever of you to keep it to yourself for so long."  
  
"I never forget an enemy," he stated flatly.  
  
The bed dipped to his left as Doctor Anastasia Zarkov seated herself at his side, her soft accent chiding him. "Who says I am your enemy?"  
  
His gaze hardened. Did she think he was some rookie? "Lady, after what you put String through, you sure ain't no best friend of mine."  
  
"He ... was upset?" she asked carefully, holding his steady gaze with a questing one of her own.  
  
Dom felt a muscle twitch in his jaw. Upset? Oh, yeah, String had been upset, all right. A picture flashed through his thoughts, and he saw again Stringfellow Hawke's haunted gaze when Dom had forced out of him the full story of Zarkov's impostor. The empty bottle of brandy had stood as mute testimony to Hawke's having been unable to face the situation without help -- the type of help he rarely sought from a bottle and had refused to accept from Santini. The image was gone in an instant then Dom was again aware of the woman's piercing eyes boring into him. He felt like he was being studied through to the bones, an uncomfortable feeling at the best of times; he hoped he showed her nothing. "So how long am I out for this time?" he asked, abruptly and deliberately changing the subject.  
  
She stared at him another moment, then pulled back. "Do you mean you did not like your accommodations until now?" she joshed easily.  
  
Dom couldn't restrain the shudder that wracked him. "Accommodations? Is that what you call them?" Yeah, he liked them all right. The death-like cold seeping into his shattered bones, the choking feeling that came with confinement, the darkness closing in when they sealed him into a tube the size of a coffin. Not once only -- they'd awakened him several times to run tests and give him therapy before sealing him away again.  
  
Ever the perceptive psychologist, Zarkov noticed his shudder and patted him again, an action that Dom was ashamed to admit gave comfort he so badly needed right then. "The Yakeyama chamber saved your life, dear Dominic. It was designed to protect burn victims from infection and to nourish the healing tissues. Without it you would be dead." Dom pressed his lips together barely aborting the statement that he would have infinitely preferred that fate. "I see you have a slight touch of claustrophobia," she went on, still studying him. "If you like, we can discuss this at another time."  
  
"Got room on your couch?" he snapped back, attempting to dismiss the horror that filled him at the very thought of the tube. But still, he had to know, had to ask again. "How ... long before I have to go back in?"  
  
She laughed, a merry sound in the cold chamber. "There is no need. The Yakeyama chamber has done its job and you are as well as it can make you." She tilted her head, scanning his sheet covered body. "A little therapy to restore your muscles, prosthetic for your leg...."  
  
"My leg," he groaned involuntarily.  
  
She took his mangled hand between both her own, chafing it with her thumb. "You can live an active, productive life once again. You are a strong man; I know you can adjust to this." He knew he was being duped -- knew this attractive woman to be the enemy she was. But despairing, alone and afraid, he nevertheless returned her clasp for all he was worth, absorbing her offered comfort even as he squeezed his eyes shut over new tears.  
  
Productive. Productive for whom? My family is gone. My daughter, Alan and Carmella, Saint John.... Aw, String, losing you hurts most of all. I loved you like my own son, kid. At least ... at least you didn't have to go on alone, after all. That would have killed you anyway if only a little slower.  
  
"It wasn't right to make me go on like this," he groaned, feeling his tenuous control slipping away. "There's no room for a useless old cripple in this world. You should have let me die."  
  
Zarkov continued to chafe his hand, her melodious voice losing its maternalism and becoming throatier, almost seductive. "But you are useful, my dear Dominic -- useful to us."  
  
That snapped his eyes open, white fury filling him from head to foot and temporarily chasing away the grief. "Against whom?" he demanded, releasing her hand and using it to wipe his eyes. "With String gone, there isn't anybody left who cares."  
  
The sound of the door opening prevented the depression from crushing him under again. He turned his head, gawking at the sight of what was to him the equivalent of the devil himself walking into the room. "You," he snarled, feeling himself go cold.  
  
"So, you do recognize me." John Bradford Horn smiled urbanely, minutely adjusting one diamond cufflink. "I've seen you several times in the past few months; you never recognized me before." He cocked a brow at Zarkov, who rose to her feet.  
  
"He's never been aware enough to do so," she said, answering the unspoken question. "His mind should clear rapidly now that his body has healed. Another couple of days...." She spread both hands, fingers wide. "Even the cobwebs will be gone by then."  
  
"Past few months?" How long had he been unconscious? A glint caught his attention -- the light catching in the gemstones and sending up a brief prism of color. So civilized, he thought, abhorrence welling in his heart. But I'm not fooled. I remember what you did to String. I was the one who had to pick up what was left of him. You and Zarkov. Disgusted, he transferred his attention to the man's face, the smooth handsomeness of the pale skin, the perfect cut to the fair hair. "How many months?"  
  
Horn abandoned his cufflink to pluck a thread off his tan jacket, each movement designed to convey superiority. "It's been thirteen weeks since your ... death."  
  
"Thirteen.... Three months?" Dom's mind reeled with the information. Three months out of his life. Three months since String was.... "It's June?"  
  
"Early July," the industrialist supplied helpfully. "And the time is...." He glanced at the platinum watch on his wrist. "My goodness. Four o'clock in the morning. Time passes when enjoying oneself, eh?"  
  
All this was too much for Santini to absorb at once. He barely heard Horn beckon Zarkov to the far side of the room. They spoke quietly for several seconds, him authoritative, her protesting something. Finally, Dom saw her sigh and nod. What were they up to? Whatever it was, he knew, it wasn't going to benefit him at all.  
  
Zarkov returned to the cot, taking up a stand at its foot where she could see Santini's face. Horn gestured through the open door, precipitating a scuffling and the sound of more footsteps. Three figures appeared then, one of whom drew Dom's breath away in a gasp. "String!"  
  
Stringfellow Hawke stood -- drooped might be the more appropriate term -- between two guards, who supported him by twisting his arms behind his back. Pale and bruised and barely conscious, he made a valiant attempt at walking, but from the way he sagged it was obvious that their hold was the only thing keeping him on his feet. At Santini's astonished call he lifted his head slowly, dulled blue eyes gazing in his general direction.  
  
Santini regarded him in mute shock for several seconds, then slowly forced himself to sit, pure reflex securing the sheet around his waist. "String, boy," he said, recovering his voice and a fraction of wits at roughly the same time. "You're alive! Are you all right?"  
  
Slowly, ever so slowly, Hawke blinked, seeming to focus only with difficulty. "D-Dom?" he croaked, a single spark lighting those horribly blank eyes.  
  
"Yeah, kid." Santini licked his lips, body and mind both numb. "It's me. How are you feeling?"  
  
"Yes, my boy," Horn asked from his post to the side. A thin smile lifted one side of his mouth. "Why don't you tell us how you're feeling. Tell ... Dominic."  
  
The response was hardly the one Santini expected. That single spark flared, blazing in Hawke's eyes like laser light. His bruised face twisted, lips drawn back in a fierce snarl. "Liar!" he screamed, lunging so suddenly at Santini that he nearly slipped the restraining hold of the two guards. He twisted, the deceptive might in his slim body straining his brawnier captors to their utmost. "I'll kill you!"  
  
Shocked all over again, Dom stared, finding only hatred in the boy's returning stare. "String, don't you know me?" he asked the fighting, growling pilot. Forcing himself out of his numb horror, he transferred his look to the smugly smiling Horn, the renewed hatred in his own heart restoring his equilibrium like a dash of cold water. "What did you do to him?" he demanded. "Or was it you?" he asked the coolly watching Zarkov.  
  
She ignored him as if he hadn't spoken at all, all traces of the maternal warmth she used to such effect replaced by a clinical detachment. "I told you it would work this time," she told Horn. "Apparently even showing him Santini won't break the conditioning if Hawke doesn't believe he's real." She cocked her head, pressing a forefinger against her lips. "Who could have foreseen that he'd accept the word of Coldsmith-Briggs so thoroughly that we couldn't even dislodge the notion with my control techniques. It really was an excellent idea, you know. Had we not been able to turn the paranoia he's been using against us to our advantage, he might have succeeded in beating us. However, this test was truly unnecessary."  
  
Coldsmith-Briggs? Dom acknowledged wildly. Michael is here? But ... I thought he was in Hong Kong! He glanced back at String wonderingly. The longish brown hair had fallen forward across the fine boned face, shading the young pilot's eyes. From beneath this fringe his eyes burned on the far side of madness.  
  
"Perhaps, my dear," Horn was replying. "But I did want to know."  
  
"You did want to enjoy the spectacle," Zarkov retorted tartly. She gestured to the guards, ignoring Dom's vehement protest. "Take him to an isolation cell -- away from Archangel. We'll be sending him out with Morris shortly."  
  
The guards swung the struggling form around, stopping suddenly. Dom craned his neck until he could see that the blockage was a slender form, as blond as Horn, and wearing a blue silk robe thrown over some kind of negligée. The girl was beautiful -- would be beautiful, Santini corrected, had she been able to erase the look of sick horror that twisted her delicate features into a grotesque mask.  
  
"Stringfellow." Dom had to strain his damaged hearing to hear her low words. "I ... I didn't know you.... I was looking for my father...." Santini couldn't see Hawke's face, but the girl trailed off at his expression.  
  
"Whore," Hawke spat, his voice laden with such deadly venom that the person Dom recognized as Angelica Horn took an involuntary step backward.  
  
Horn caught her when she stumbled, sliding a supporting arm around her waist and studying her worriedly. "It won't work this time, my dear," he said in her ear. "Right now he hates your pretty face as much as he does mine."  
  
Recoiling as if from a snake, Angelica jerked free from her father's hold, spinning to face him with a look of pure loathing. "We're becoming monsters. Monsters! Human beings wouldn't treat each other this way."  
  
Horn held his arm out to her another moment, then let it slowly drop to his side, and Dom could see a shade of doubt cross his handsome features. "Not monsters, my dear, masters who know how to get what we want."  
  
"Yeah, at the expense of a good man who's suffered too much already," Dom volleyed, feeling some bleak thread of satisfaction when the girl's fingers flew to her cheeks. "By tearing up String's mind -- tearing apart my family...."  
  
"Family," Angelica echoed as though from a distance.  
  
"He's my son in every way that counts." Dom spoke the words from his own heart to the girl's, hoping against hope that they would touch an ally rather than another enemy. "I raised him as my own. I love him as my own."  
  
Angelica went if possible even paler than she was. She offered Dom a single look so full of regret that Dom felt himself take hope. An ally for certain. "I'm sorry," she murmured, turquoise eyes filling. With a helpless glance at her father, she turned and fled, robe swirling as she ran.  
  
Horn watched her leave with an enigmatic expression, then again gestured to the guards. They dragged Hawke out of the room, followed by Dr. Zarkov, who spared him a backward glance. "Get some rest," she advised easily. "I'll check on you later."  
  
"We both will," Horn promised over his shoulder, following her out. "I'll have some clothes sent in for you, Mr. Santini."  
  
The door clicked shut leaving Dominic Santini more confused than ever before. On the one hand, the joy at seeing his foster son still alive overshadowed and temporarily crowded out the despair he felt at his own crippled condition. He'd've gladly offered both legs if it would have helped String. Then there was the fear -- fear for what they'd done to the boy, what they were going to do to himself. Even fear for Michael Coldsmith-Briggs -- Archangel. Santini had never considered him a friend -- had even resented the fledgling trust that Hawke was developing in the man. But that he'd acted as a friend to them both in the past was undeniable.  
  
"Hang on, kid," he told the absent Stringfellow Hawke, only peripherally aware that death had ceased to be an acceptable alternative to existence. "I'll get you out of this somehow." Yeah, somehow. But what could one crippled old man do against the army of one of the richest men on the planet?  
  
*** 


	18. Chapter 18

The warren of Knightsbridge was abustle as usual, the corridors filled with agents and staff hurrying about their respective assignments with coordinated delicacy. The waters of this bureaucratic pond parted as if by magic, however, to permit the passage of Jason Locke without hindrance. One look at the thundercloud that sat across the black agent's brow and even these trained operatives stood aside, none daring to interfere with whatever purpose took him striding through their midst.  
  
Even Dolly Burke, Newman's usually intrepid secretary, could only gawk without protest when he stormed her boss's stronghold. Dolly might be fearless, but she was far from suicidal.  
  
The office door had barely slammed shut behind him before Jason was across the room, leaning his palms flat on Donald Newman's polished desk. "Pamela's dead," he gritted, his rage skewering the older agent as though on a spit.  
  
Except for mild surprise at the precipitous entrance, Newman's lined face held little reaction to the announcement. He casually slid the photograph he'd been examining back into the top drawer of his desk, then leaned back in his leather wingbacked chair until he could see the other without having to crane his neck. "So I've been given to understand," he drawled, his Savannah accent very pronounced, a sure sign of distraction. "Needless to say, ah've been keeping my eye on the case despite the fact that this is not a matter for our division."  
  
The last statement was a clear enough warning, one that Jason ignored as thoroughly as if it'd not been spoken at all. "Pamela Billingsley was one of the best agents Archangel had. Her cover was blown because someone on the inside leaked her identity."  
  
Something indecipherable flashed in the older man's brown eyes at that although his expression was carefully neutral. He steepled his fingers and gazed calmly into Jason's tight face. "Ah'm sorry the woman is dead, but I think looking for a traitor within the gates might be giving her just a little too much credit. It's long been evident that Michael tended to choose a woman more for her appearance than her abilities, and given Miss Billingsley's more ... er ... aesthetic attributes...."  
  
If he was expecting this to defuse the incipient fury building behind Locke's dark eyes he was doomed to be disappointed. The black agent's full lips tightened even further. "I knew Pamela personally -- worked with her in the past. She wasn't hired because of her legs but because she was the best undercover operative in the business."  
  
"Meaning you still believe there's a leak in the Company," Newman translated, focussing at some point over Jason's shoulder.  
  
Locke took a deep breath and straightened, staring thoughtfully at the prints his hands had left on the top of the desk. "There's no doubt in my mind."  
  
"Tell me what you have." The words were spoken almost reluctantly as if Newman didn't really want to know. They earned a curiously flat look from Locke, whose anger had not abated.  
  
"We have more than we expected. Before she died, Pamela managed to get a name to us -- Morris' employer."  
  
"John Bradford Horn." Donald Newman, code named Apollo, murmured the name quietly, only then offering his associate an explanatory shrug. "I had access to the police reports, too."  
  
"You mean the empty file?" Jason shot at him, studying his superior intently.  
  
Newman sensed the scrutiny and returned an irritated glare and a dismissive wave. "After twenty-five years in this organization, I hardly qualify as an amateur, Mister Locke. Proceed with your report." He smiled thinly. "As evidently you did not follow my cease and desist order."  
  
Jason's countenance did not alter although his stance stiffened ever so slightly. "One priority is to find out who arranged that meeting between Archangel and Stringfellow Hawke. Michael's communications officer, Sun Li, checked out in the clear; whoever sent the revised location schedules could be our man. I have a team of experts working on that angle."  
  
"Makes sense," Newman said, his tones again betraying a mind that was far away from the present situation. He cracked open his drawer until the overhead lights glinted on the photograph he'd been perusing when Locke had entered. "What else?"  
  
Jason went on with his report, now frankly studying his superior. "We've got APB's out on Horn and Bishop Morris. I know Morris rented a car at the airport, then switched to another one somewhere outside of the Los Angeles area. California Highway Patrol has a lead on direction. We hope to have at least an approximate location soon."  
  
Apollo nodded, sliding his hand into the drawer in a tender gesture. "Very good, Mister Locke. I'll arrange for an old associate of mine to give you assistance. Fran Carrigan is with the Las Vegas police; he could be useful for narrowing your search further."  
  
He reached for the phone, dialing a number rapidly from memory. He kept his head down, carefully avoiding eye contact, and thus missed seeing the expression of revelation cross his subordinates face. "Hel-- What are you doing?" This last was in response to the dark finger pressing down the receiver hook. Newman looked up, gaping to find a small, dark-metalled automatic pistol pointed at the exact spot marking the center of his forehead. "You'd better have a very good explanation for your actions, Mr. Locke," he blustered, recradling the receiver.  
  
Jason's mustache twitched in a humorless smile. "I think your being an accessory to murder explains my actions pretty well," he returned coolly. He cocked his head, something akin to disappointment joining the burning anger behind his black eyes. "I didn't want to believe it was you," he stated flatly. "Even though you were the only one outside of myself and the Airwolf team who knew about Pamela's contact with Morris, I kept looking for another mole. Even when my instincts were screaming at me that you were up to something, I wanted to trust you."  
  
"In this business, one is always up to something," the older man retorted in an unsuccessful attempt at bravado. When Locke merely gazed at him, he sighed, carefully lifting both hands into plain sight. "You can't interfere, Jason. I'm begging you not to try. There's more at stake here than you can imagine."  
  
"Suppose you enlighten me," the black agent suggested with mock reasonableness. As an afterthought he leaned over and opened the desk drawer, pulling out the object Newman had been touching. It was a framed picture of a girl of about eight -- his daughter. Locke tossed it back dismissively, ignoring the automatic protest of the older man.  
  
"I...." Newman aborted the essay abruptly, pressing his lips tight together and shaking his head. With his slumped shoulders and lined face he suddenly looked much older than his fifty-five years.  
  
Jason waited a full sixty seconds; when it became apparent he was going to get no more from the man, he gestured him to his feet with the pistol. "My biggest problem right now is not knowing how far this treachery has gone," he said grimly. "I can't rely on your not having accomplices within the organization -- not with the lives of two people at stake." He waggled the gun again more forcefully. "We're going for a little ride, Donald, to make contact with some people I can trust. Come out from behind that desk."  
  
Newman obeyed, only pausing when they were abreast to ask quietly, "What makes you think I'm guilty? Pamela could have told someone of her assignment."  
  
Newman debated silently, then met his gaze. "As I said, you were the only person outside of my team who knew Pamela was going to meet with Morris yesterday; that was the first clue. Second, I traced the codes used to erase the police report on Pamela's death; that a contact of mine found out about her death at all was the purest accident. I couldn't pinpoint anyone specific, but they would have had to come from near Committee level to override my requests." He jerked his head at the cradled phone. "That decided it for me. I never said anything about Nevada even though that is where we're concentrating the search ... as of fifteen minutes ago. And I've been calling the Las Vegas police department among others for the past two hours -- that wasn't their number you were dialing."  
  
Newman licked his lips, body tense, and Jason braced himself for the attack he was sure was to follow. Then the older man relaxed again, recognizing the futility of any attempt at this point. "You're making a mistake," was all he said.  
  
Locke gestured him on ahead. "Maybe, but with the lives of two good men at stake, I'd rather err on the side of circumstantial evidence and my own intuition. Let's go. We're going to pay a visit to Santini Air."  
  
*** 


	19. Chapter 19

Precisely one hour after the events taking place at Knightsbridge, Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III paced the tiled floor of his small cell, single good eye focused far beyond its antiseptic environs. He chewed his thumbnail furiously as he paced, his damaged knee and stiffened muscles giving him a slightly uneven gait. He looked dirty and fatigued and uneasy, but somehow as authoritative as well, as though it were he who were master of his situation instead of his captors.  
  
Several yards down a connecting corridor, three people stood in the brightly lit security center watching him on one of the six color monitors on the wall. Silently they regarded the white clad figure for some minutes before the tallest of the trio tapped the camera controls. "Has he done nothing but pace since Hawke was removed from the cell?" he asked a uniformed guard stationed to his rear.  
  
The stocky black man assigned to monitoring duty nodded, then apparently realizing that the gesture was invisible to the impeccably dressed blond man, said aloud, "Yes, sir. His limp is getting worse -- looks like he damaged his knee -- and occasionally he'll scan the ceiling and walls for something -- the camera, I suppose. Beyond that all he does is walk the floor."  
  
Horn nodded, turning a smug look on the room's third occupant, the attractive Dr. Zarkov. "Didn't I tell you, Anastasia? Even the invulnerable Archangel has to be worried about his own skin. Not as imperturbable as you'd estimated, is he?"  
  
Tired dark eyes sparkled with something akin to indulgence. "Perhaps it isn't his own skin he is worried about, my dear John. Working together all these years must have engendered some rapport between Michael and our absent young pilot. I'd say our little bird is as worried about his friend as himself, wouldn't you?"  
  
Horn snorted, a more than adequate opinion on that subject. "You forget, my dear, I've crossed swords with this man in the past, although admittedly it was usually on a Congressional level. I've never met a more worthy opponent, not even in Stringfellow Hawke." He growled quietly, a cruel sound deep in his throat. "Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III is a self-serving bureaucrat who cares about himself and his job, in that order. Right now he's busily plotting how best to cut my throat and protect his own. To him, Hawke is expendable ... and expended."  
  
Zarkov cocked her head, still watching the blond agent on the monitor, her light Russian accent growing more pronounced as she considered. "I can only agree to a point. As to cutting your throat, that is to be taken for granted. But I too was watching them in the cell earlier, and it is my professional opinion that the comfort Mr. Briggs offered the boy did not spring from cruelty or unconcern, although I am willing to admit he manipulates as well as either of us ever have." She chuckled softly. "Between yourself and Archangel, an honest man has very little chance to stand. If I had ever had thoughts of turning into one, you two would have disabused me of that notion quite completely."  
  
"Archangel is a man who knows how to get what he wants." Horn brought his palms together in sardonic applause. "Even as I told Angelica."  
  
That brought Zarkov's dark head around. Of average height, she had to look up several inches to catch his cold blue eyes. "I feel compelled to warn you about your daughter," she began carefully, medical decorum firmly in place. "Judging from her reactions earlier, I believe you shall have problems with her later regarding Stringfellow."  
  
The blue eyes went positively arctic at her remark. "I shall handle Angelica," Horn rapped flatly. "You concentrate on your own responsibilities, Doctor. That means Archangel."  
  
Zarkov bowed her head slightly in submissive acknowledgment and broke the eye contact, returning her attention to the lonely figure on the screen. "Of course," she murmured demurely. "Would you like to hear my initial estimate on his status?"  
  
"I'm not paying you for your considerable charms," the blond snapped back, unmollified. "I contacted you because you had had some success with exploiting Stringfellow Hawke in the past, and I had a hunch your techniques might prove useful when combined with mine." He jerked a thumb toward the blond man on the monitor, reiterating, "He is the subject, now, Anastasia, not Angelica."  
  
She shrugged and began formally, "It is really too bad the East Germans did not use on him the same type of drug that you used on Hawke."  
  
"The one we reactivated on Hawke," Horn recalled with a smile, good humor restored at the thought.  
  
She nodded. "The serum the Germans used to force Archangel into that assassination attempt was short lived and organic in composition. His medical staff long ago flushed it out of his tissues. I cannot reactivate what is not there." She smiled and spread both hands, palms up. "One advantage we had with the independent nature of Stringfellow -- he would never have accepted the complicated medical treatment necessary to clear his system of your peoples' compound. According to the old man...."  
  
"Santini," Horn supplied, turning his head fractionally to watch Michael's progress across the small screen.  
  
"Yes. According to him, Hawke spends most of his time cloistered in his mountain retreat. After my own attempt, he remained up there for some weeks alone. The effectiveness of my original technique on his already unbalanced nature was the reason I decided to amend my approach in that direction this time. I severed remaining family ties by reinforcing the delusion that both Dominic Santini and Saint John Hawke were impostors, which was much assisted by your apparent assassination of Santini three months ago. Combined with your compound in his system, the proper application of pain, the...." She shrugged. "It was only a matter of time before we could break him down."  
  
Horn curled his hand into a fist, his knuckles white. "Break him into pieces," he snarled, momentarily letting the malevolence peek through the urbanity.  
  
Zarkov shrugged again. "There certainly isn't much left of him now except for what I restored to him. He, I fear, is another matter."  
  
"He, meaning Archangel." Both paused, watching as Michael ceased his uneven pacing at the doorway, kneeling with difficulty to run light fingers over the locking mechanism, then up around the invisible crack where it sealed. He stood again and turned, single blue eye visible behind his half- blackened glasses narrowed with unemotional calculation.  
  
"Perhaps I was a bit hasty," Horn admitted. "He doesn't exactly seem to be paralyzed with fear, does he. Hawke wasn't afraid either, but this man is ... different. I get the impression underestimating this one would be a bigger mistake than with Hawke."  
  
Zarkov stepped closer until her slender shoulder just brushed Horn's own. "This is the difference between a pilot and an intelligence agent. Michael's training and experience are indeed different from our young Hawke's, and even more extensive. You remember the illustration of the oak and the willow?"  
  
The blond industrialist lifted his arm, slipping it around the woman's waist, his move casual and familiarly sexual. "A children's example."  
  
Zarkov snuggled closer. "Perhaps, but correct, nonetheless. Hawke is unbending, unwilling to yield to what he does not believe in. He will not falter an inch until he has been broken in two. This man ..." She tapped the screen. "... is more like the willow. While he is every bit as ... stalwart -- that is the correct word? -- as Stringfellow, he is also far more flexible. We push and he bends ... just so far, then whips back as strong as ever, more often than not with exactly what he went out to obtain.  
  
"A dangerous man," Horn murmured, nuzzling her throat while the guard carefully kept his eyes averted. "Isn't there some way we can bend him permanently?"  
  
Lost in his kisses, Zarkov shut her eyes blissfully, murmuring between barely parted lips, "Not in the way you mean. Michael Briggs is not just flexible, he is also far more calloused and pragmatic than the other was, with fewer emotional handles for us to use. Early analysis is revealing deeply implanted mental shields, as though he'd been brainwashed to withstand brainwashing, so to speak. As best as I can judge from the sketchy reports I have read, this is relatively new, perhaps in response to the episodes he's endured in the past."  
  
That brought Horn's head up, eyes narrowing again. "Too deeply ingrained for us to work with him?"  
  
The reply was that tinkling laughter. "Oh, no, not at all. He has been broken for information once; once we make our crack, we can use it to lever ..." She made a prying motion with both hands. "... his will open to us." She sighed. "He is simply a more difficult subject to control. We actually broke Hawke and put the pieces together as we desired. We shall have to convince Archangel into our direction, starting with our little crack. I shall be using much the same technique I did originally on Stringfellow when I convinced him that his brother was returned. A variation shall work on Michael as well, once I find the weakened point in his will." She paused. "Was he not once in love with a woman named Maria?"  
  
That earned her a chuckle. "According to my East German contacts, Maria von Furst might be a very bad place to start, Anastasia."  
  
She shrugged. "No matter. There are other points of persuasion we may use. One of them has one-half hour ago left this building with Bishop Morris."  
  
Horn again held her close, his expression thoughtful. "Do you really believe Archangel is going to care enough about Stringfellow Hawke for us to use the boy against him?"  
  
"I consider Stringfellow a single point of persuasion," she returned smugly, "no more than that. Now that we know they are friends, we can use him to open that crack we need in that lovely emotional armor Mr. Briggs possesses." A dimple appeared in one cheek. "To find that out was, after all, why I suggested keeping them together after the old man's fraudulent death."  
  
"I would have preferred seeing Hawke suffer alone," the other grumbled, shooting the now-interested guard a warning look; the black man averted his eyes back to the monitor. "But for the sake of my returned assets, I was prepared to permit the experiment."  
  
"It was necessary," Zarkov assured him, gesturing at the monitor with the arm not locked around his. "From my own time with the KGB I learned that an agent's loyalties are often elastic -- less strictly defined than most peoples' since they operate in so many gray areas. I needed one positive sentiment to use to get in the door, as you Americans say, that being this friendship with Hawke. When I have my inroad," the psychologist went on, "Stringfellow will be but one of Michael Briggs' many loyalties that we will employ. Country, his honor -- these are often nebulous compared to human relationships. Perhaps later, once his mind is more open to us, we will find family to use if we find reference to any. But never fear, John, this man will be persuaded to give you anything you wish."  
  
"Persuasion takes time, Anastasia," Horn cautioned, loosening his hold on her but not letting go completely. "I've received warning that Archangel's people are getting closer than I find comfortable. And Hawke's brother must be on our trail by now as well. Saint John Hawke and possibly Airwolf."  
  
Zarkov tilted her head, professional curiosity aroused. "I'd love to meet the real Saint John Hawke, even compare him with my facsimile. To have made such an impression on his younger brother -- enough so that Stringfellow was positively obsessed with finding him! He must be a very fascinating man to engender such loyalty."  
  
"His file was interesting, to say the least." Horn closed his eyes, saying by way of recitation, "Saint John Hawke, born Los Angeles, California, four years, seven months older than his brother, Stringfellow. Entered the United States Army during the Tet offensive, rising quickly through field promotions to the rank of Captain, then Major after his capture by the North Vietnamese Army. He remained MIA in Southeast Asia for fifteen years." His lashes rose although his vision was still focussed far away. "It's now obvious he was the one responsible for the disappearance of Stringfellow Hawke from the veterans' hospital. A move, I might add, which precluded my taking any measures against Stringfellow while he was injured."  
  
"It did show remarkable foresight," the psychologist agreed.  
  
Horn shrugged. "He must have still had ties to the intelligence community or he wouldn't have been inducted into the new Airwolf team so quickly. My informant tells me they have a one hundred percent success rate so far, which is why the Committee permits them some measure of autonomy under their official liaison, Jason Locke."  
  
"The whole team sounds interesting," Zarkov said sotto voce.  
  
The industrialist regarded her quizzically. "I hope, Anastasia, that you do not get to meet Saint John Hawke sooner than either of us planned."  
  
"Dominic Santini is his foster father as well," the woman began. "Perhaps we can use--"  
  
Loud voices whipped them toward the doorway in time to see the tall, ebon form of Bishop Morris thunder through it. The big mercenary was dirty and bruised, and bleeding from the nose. He stopped just inside the entrance and staggered dizzily back against the frame. "He ... he...." he stuttered.  
  
Horn released Zarkov abruptly, striding across the room to stare up at the disheveled man. "Where is Hawke?!" he bellowed, dangerous fire in his face.  
  
Morris shook his head then looked like he wished he hadn't. "Punk jumped me a couple miles outside'a the gates," he grated, swiping his streaming nose on his sleeve, then loosing an oath when the material stained scarlet.  
  
Horn took his lapels in both hands, scrunching them up, then hastily released the man and stepped back. "What happened?" he demanded, not one whit cowed by the glare he received. "Report!"  
  
The hum of the monitors was the dominant sound in the small room for several seconds, followed by a loud sniffing that was all the mercenary was capable of for a moment. Finally, Morris shook himself and straightened away from the doorframe, while Horn, Zarkov and the guard held their collective breath.  
  
"Report. Yes, sir." The mercenary probed his nose carefully, then accepted the handkerchief Zarkov offered with an ungracious snatch. "We were less than five miles outside the main gates when Hawke pulled my Lincoln off the road. Said there'd been a change of plan you hadn't told me about."  
  
"And you believed an injured, brainwashed boy?" Horn exclaimed almost involuntarily.  
  
Morris flushed under his dark coloration. "Figured I'd play along and see what he was up to," he muttered defensively, fooling no one. "Punk said something about Saint John depending on him, then hit me when I wasn't looking. Next thing I know, he's driving off in my car and I'm standing there in the middle of the desert with a bloody nose."  
  
John Horn went very still. "Did he say anything about Airwolf?"  
  
Yellow teeth peeked through a cold smile. "Said he'd meet me at the rendezvous once he'd picked up Airwolf, an' we could do some new plannin' on getting his brother back." He laughed, an angry bark. "He even apologized for hitting an old friend. Whatever you put in that joy juice, I could use it on my girlfriends."  
  
"We have a loose cannon out there, Doctor," Horn rapped, ignoring the mercenary's last remark. "We're in jeopardy of losing everything."  
  
A slim fingered hand grasped the industrialist's shoulder. "I underestimated that suspicious, protective streak," Zarkov told him gently, "but I stand by the results of my work. Hawke will do what he's programmed for -- he can do nothing else."  
  
"And if he runs into his real brother?" Horn asked worriedly.  
  
"He'll kill him." The hand tightened briefly before dropping away. "Why do you think I spent so much time reinforcing my original delusion confusing his family relationship? Stringfellow will not believe that this man is truly his brother, he cannot believe anything anyone tells him. He'll recover Airwolf for his own reasons, and he'll kill anyone who gets in his way."  
  
Turquoise blue eyes probed her brown ones, the warmth of the previous few moments gone. "Are you sure, Anastasia? If he turns against us, he'll bring the military down on our heads."  
  
Zarkov hesitated. "Psychology is not an exact science, John. In my professional opinion even if Stringfellow Hawke were to meet his true brother, he would not be able to recognize him, and the drugs should prevent his being capable of questioning his actions clearly for at least the next two days." She fluttered her lashes at Morris, who responded like a dog on the prowl. "Mr. Morris was to run interference against any outside forces acting on our subject; he was our insurance, not the means. We must trust that our means was correct."  
  
Morris dropped the bloody handkerchief on the floor and fixed Horn with a nasty stare. "Don't know what we needed the Golden Boy for anyway. I could'a flown your military helicopter for you. It ain't like Hawke couldn't'a told us where it was."  
  
Horn lifted one shoulder a millimeter. "After Airwolf gets to the rendezvous and the security measures are deactivated, you may get your chance, although I must admit I had a more qualified flight engineer in mind." He jerked his head at the again pacing Briggs. "Once he's restored my Swiss bank accounts, and we're sure we can rely on him."  
  
"We'll be sure," the attractive psychologist purred, also watching the blond agent on the monitor. "Give me another twenty-four hours and we shall be very sure indeed."  
  
Horn tugged pensively on his earlobe, sharp mind shifting into top speed. "You have twelve before we leave the country, Anastasia, although if necessary Archangel can be relocated with us; for the next two days he is of only secondary importance. Morris, I want you to go to Larchmont Field and head up the reception committee personally. Hawke should be bringing Airwolf in, in the next two to four hours. Before you leave, find Rombauer and tell him to put the estate on red alert. All troops at ready stations."  
  
"Do you think that's necessary?" Zarkov asked, lines appearing in her forehead. "Won't your contact within the Firm alert you if they intend to attack?"  
  
"If the Firm means to attack," Horn replied sourly, "not Hawke." He slid his arm back around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder. "That's one of the problems with having a loose cannon, my dear Anastasia. You can never be too careful about in which direction it will fire."  
  
***  
  
It was with extreme caution that Jason hustled his captive through the high security screen that was Knightsbridge to the parking garage in the second sub-basement. Although Donald Newman's expertise lay more in the fields of administration and politics, Locke was far too prudent to underestimate the older man's capabilities. After all, no one reached sub-Committee rank by being incompetent.  
  
It wasn't until the dark brown Buick had turned onto the nearest freeway that Locke heaved an audible sigh of relief. "This isn't going to accomplish anything," Newman remarked casually, obediently turning the car in the direction of Van Nuys. "You have no proof that I'm involved in anything underhanded."  
  
"Nothing but my instincts," the black agent agreed, although not wavering his tightly gripped Smith & Wesson pistol from Newman's direction. "They've served me pretty well first in 'Nam, then deep undercover; I figure I ought to stick with them now."  
  
Lines etched themselves more deeply in the older agent's forehead and around his mouth, familiar to his staff as the prelude to an administrative chewing out. "You realize, Mr. Locke, that this little faux pas could very well mean the end of your career with the DNS." He risked a glance at his captor. "You're gambling it all away, Jason, on a bare suspicion for two men you hardly know."  
  
"You're just mad because you can't match my hand," the black man retorted; he hefted the gun meaningfully. "I've heard a Smith & Wesson beats four aces any day of the week."  
  
Newman returned his eyes to the road just in time to avoid the Mack truck that was swerving into his path. "I've known Archangel for ten years, and he's always been erratic. More than one top echelon executive has confided to me that he's untrustworthy -- as likely to hammer the Committee into going along with his schemes as coerce them with that silver tongue of his. Zeus doesn't like him."  
  
"Zeus doesn't like anyone," Locke pointed out, his demeanor curt but apparently quite willing to chat.  
  
"Zeus is a professional. When I reach Committee level...."  
  
"That doesn't seem overly likely now, does it?" the black agent interjected caustically. "And from what I've heard, Archangel's record is a series of successes right across the board. He was even the one that kept Stringfellow Hawke working with the Company before Saint John was located."  
  
Newman's vehement response was audible even over the blare of a taxi's horn. "Oh, I'm sure that was a real feather in his cap," he retorted, determinedly ignoring the taxi driver's rude visual rebuttal to being cut off. "There is one area I never envied Archangel's authority. Stringfellow Hawke has been a thorn in the entire Committee's side -- and mine once or twice -- for two years now." He cocked an eyebrow in Jason's direction, his southern drawl very pronounced. "That boy is a mercenary, you know, without any shred of patriotism. The only reason he ever worked for the Company was to use our facilities for his own purposes. Even when he was our top test pilot, he spent a great deal of his time haunting our drug enforcement and political bureaus for intelligence on the Far East. Then he stole our prototype gunship...."  
  
"I know the story," Locke interrupted wearily. "And I'm aware of his reasons. Do you honestly think the Company would have continued to look for Saint John Hawke if the brother hadn't retained possession of Airwolf?"  
  
"His reasons are immaterial." Newman, a.k.a., Apollo, removed one hand from the steering wheel, wiping it on the light worsted material of his suit pants. Jason followed the movement carefully with narrowed dark eyes, something the older agent noted with disdainful humor although he made no mention of it. "The fact remains," he went on, "that it's far likely those two have defected as been kidnapped. I wouldn't be surprised if right this minute they're somewhere plotting the best way to take Airwolf out of the country."  
  
Black brows furrowed as Locke actually took a moment to consider this prospect. He was too much of a skeptic not to. "I think you're understating Michael's reputation. He's been known to shake things up a bit but no one has ever questioned his loyalty."  
  
"Wrong." Newman lifted his head triumphantly. "You may not be privy to most of the political power struggles going on at top levels ..."  
  
"Privy is right," Locke muttered.  
  
"... but Archangel is not as universally popular as you seem to believe. There's been more than one allegation that Michael's loyalty is stronger to this Stringfellow Hawke than it is to the Company."  
  
Locke shook his head. "If the Committee honestly questioned Archangel's full loyalty, they would have dispensed with him permanently long before now. When he was a prisoner in Mexico they had already closed down his section; if they'd wanted to be rid of him they simply would have refused to restore his staff and responsibilities, and no one would have contested the action."  
  
Newman made a harumphing sound. "Archangel has some powerful supporters, particularly in the Senate and White House. But he's defied the Committee and the Senate several times to protect that young maverick, when we would have had him arrested and interrogated for Airwolf's location." Newman pounded the steering wheel and his point home. "Considering that degree of support, it could actually have been Hawke's idea to turn rogue, with Michael following him out."  
  
"Hawke's brother would disagree. And before you say it...." Jason held up one dark hand -- the one not holding the S&W. "Although I've only worked with Stringfellow once, I have worked with Saint John closely enough to trust his judgment."  
  
Newman pulled the steering wheel hard to the right, barely missing two boys on bicycles. "You don't think he'd lie to protect his brother?" he asked with pseudo-nonchalance, adding meaningfully, "Again?"  
  
The black agent pursed his lips at that, but replied honestly, nonetheless. "I know what point you're trying to make. We did see Saint John Hawke scam us when he made us believe his younger brother was dead."  
  
"Which he'd do again if his brother was in danger of a Zebra Squad sanction. Therefore, his opinion is suspect in this regard."  
  
Locke shrugged. "Saint John would protect his brother, but not at the cost of his country. And again, I can't fault his reasoning for the first incident. We still don't know who planted the bomb that killed Saint John's foster father, Dominic Santini. And in the condition Stringfellow was in, Saint John considered him too vulnerable to be placed at risk. I'm forced to agree that his plan was the best one for all concerned."  
  
Again Newman glanced at Jason Locke, from determined black eyes to the large-bored weapon expertly trained on his midsection. "You're as bad as Archangel," he said by way of censure. "You're too involved with these men on a personal level. I tend to agree with you about Saint John Hawke. I've worked with him several times since his return, and he's proven himself a reliable agent. I too am inclined to trust him excepting only where his brother is concerned. But Stringfellow is a brazen young upstart with a chip on his shoulder; if not for Michael protecting him, we would have had him eliminated a long time ago."  
  
Jason pricked up his ears at that. "Eliminated him? As in a Zebra Squad hit? That bomb that killed Santini wasn't set by the Company, was it? A murder attempt to retrieve Airwolf?"  
  
Newman sputtered. "National security dictates certain measures ... I mean, for the sake of the United States...."  
  
"I've never seen you choke on a lie before, Donald. This one a little hard even for you to swallow?"  
  
Newman shut his mouth with a click of teeth, maintaining a surly silence for several minutes. When he again spoke, it was through grating teeth. "If we had authorized a hit on your precious Hawke, it would have been for the proper reasons and using the proper procedure."  
  
"I suppose we're going to have to agree to disagree on that point," Locke returned in a hard voice. "Get off at the next exit; that'll take us to Van Nuys airport."  
  
*** 


	20. Chapter 20

It was a somber duo that left the hot sunny tarmac for the cool interior of Santini Air's hangar. Keeping a towel from the glove compartment over the gun to hide it from curious eyes, Locke ushered his captive through the narrow aisle leading to the glassed in office, summoning the team with a raised voice. Mike Rivers and Jo Santini appeared at a run, bursting through the office door and stopping short at sight of one of the bureau heads of the National Department of Security being held at gunpoint by his subordinate.  
  
"Bucking for a raise, Jason?" Rivers blurted, surprise and speculation written on his round features.  
  
Locke snorted without humor. "The new Smith & Wesson method of advancement. You want to get somewhere with the Company, try heavy artillery on your supervisor."  
  
Jo glanced from one man to the other, her wide gaze settling on the pistol Jason was holding steadily on his boss. "I don't understand. What's going on? Isn't Mr. Newman on our side?"  
  
The agent in question drew himself stiffly erect, craggy face set in hard lines, a curious desperation living in his brown eyes. "I wish to inform you, Major Rivers, Miss Santini, that this man is in performance of a felony kidnapping. You could all be considered accomplices if you abet him in any way."  
  
"You wanna let us in on what we're abetting?" Rivers hinted, light blue eyes examining the older agent with suspicion.  
  
Jason waved Newman to a seat, then perched on one corner of the wide desk where he could watch the man closely. "Since external security was still probing Archangel's personnel, I decided to spend some time on the computer working from another angle. Rather than starting with the whos and the whys, I tried the angle of how."  
  
"'How,' what?" Mike asked, leaning against the entryway and crossing his arms. "How did the murder take place? How did Morris get into the country? How were Archangel and Hawke captured?"  
  
Locke shook his head. "Started at the other end. I wanted to know how and by whom the investigation was interrupted."  
  
"Police computers have been broken into before," Jo pointed out, wiping her hands nervously on the stylish green jumpsuit she wore instead of coveralls today. "You hear all the time about tickets disappearing and driving records being expunged."  
  
Locke acknowledged that with a little nod. "True, but this went a lot deeper. This involved not only local and state police departments, but wormholed the DNS computer itself. No hacker could have done that; believe me, I helped design some of the safeguards." He gestured at the silent Newman with his S&W. "The only way all of that could have been accomplished was from inside the Company."  
  
"So naturally I had to be guilty," Newman drawled sarcastically, his face flushed with anger. "I know the system even better than you do, Mr. Locke, and there isn't any way you could have traced codes as high level as you claim would have been required to wipe out an entire investigation. You don't have the clearance to access anything that sensitive, and I know for a fact the Committee hasn't been approached for authorization."  
  
Mike shot the black agent a grin. "Super Hacker strikes again, eh?"  
  
Locke contrived to look modest, failing miserably. "I do have a certain talent in that direction." He met Newman's glare and scowled. "Like I said, I helped design those safeguards. It took me a couple of days but I was able to crack some of them -- enough to let me know who would have been able to delete the investigative and forensic reports. You could have done it, Donald."  
  
"Even if that were true," the older man volleyed nastily, "which I'm not admitting, that's still not proof that I'm a traitor. I might have had reasons far beyond your level of comprehension."  
  
"Which is a not-so-subtle way of saying they could have by-passed you altogether," Jo interpreted worriedly. "Jason, are you sure...?"  
  
A muscle clenched in Locke's dark jaw, his forehead lining with a frown, but his nod was definite. "I'm sure. But he's right -- that isn't enough proof."  
  
"What made you decide to move then?" Mike wanted to know.  
  
This time Locke chewed his lip, betraying a momentary hesitation, though not a trace of doubt. "With my evidence all circumstantial, my final decision had to be based on intuition. With or without proof, I knew Apollo was dirty and that if I didn't move right away it would be too late."  
  
"Good enough for me. 'Course, now that we have him," Rivers went on, uncrossing his arms and putting his hands in the pockets of his black slacks, "what do we do with him?"  
  
Jason's shrug was casual. "How about making him talk?"  
  
"Good luck," the southern agent retorted, chin high.  
  
Mike circled the silent Jo to stand behind Newman, making very certain he did not pass between the prisoner and Jason's gun. "I'll bet Saint John could persuade you to tell us something," he spoke in a velvet voice into Newman's right ear. "Saint John has a stake in this, as I recall. Something to do with his kid brother?" When Newman only turned to glare at him, Mike smiled cherubically. "You don't know my partner very well, do you. Let me tell you, Saint John is a very protective type person, especially where his brother is concerned. Goes ballistic and everything."  
  
"Even I wouldn't mess around with Saint John's family," Locke interjected, "and I'm a friend."  
  
"Or, you could talk to us." Mike slapped his own chest. "Hey, I'm not exactly a Stringfellow Hawke fan, but I don't like to hear about anyone messing with him, either." He bared very white teeth wolfishly. "You can discuss things with us the easy way or the hard way, it's up to you."  
  
Newman licked his lips but was not without courage. "I demand to speak to someone in authority. If you're going to call the police, then call them. I have a few things to say to them myself."  
  
Jason opened his mouth to reply then shut it again when the phone chose that moment to ring. He nodded Jo around the desk, she also being careful not to come between the Smith & Wesson and its target. She picked up the receiver, listened for less than thirty seconds, muttered acknowledgement and hung up. "That was Caitlin O'Shaunessey. She's on her way here. She says she has something for us but didn't want to talk over the phone. She and Ramon are bringing the chopper in, ETA fifteen minutes."  
  
Mike tilted his head again at Newman. "Looks like you're going to get your wish, Donald, baby. Cops are on their way. I wouldn't look for too much sympathy, though; Cait's a friend of Hawke's too."  
  
"Speaking of whom...." Locke glanced through the glass window leading out into the hangar; the old Steerman was there, nearly perpetually in for repairs. Of life there was no sign. "Where's Saint John? I would have expected him to be here hanging on the phone for word of his brother."  
  
"We still have a lot of work to do on Airwolf," Mike answered, patting Apollo affably on the shoulder, "so we stayed overnight at the Lair. I'm heading back out to give him a hand once I pick up some parts. We figure we'll be needing the Lady once everything starts breaking."  
  
"How near is she ready to go?"  
  
Mike considered, boyish face screwed up in calculation. "We had to trace back the weapon deployment system circuit by circuit and replace everything hit by that armor piercing shell, and about twenty auxiliary panels on top of that. We figure two hours more maximum, less if he has some help."  
  
Jason nodded. "I want you and Jo to head out now and give him a hand. Once we have a location on Horn, I'm calling out a full scale offensive. We're going in to blast Michael and Hawke out if necessary."  
  
"You can't!" Newman started up, sinking back down when the gun centered between his eyes. "I mean ... not without official sanction. An assault squad requires more authorization than you have."  
  
Locke studied him dispassionately. "I've already spoken to Bill Klondyker, the commander of Epsilon Guard and a personal friend of Michael's. He's offered me a three helicopter strike force, and I've got volunteers from Archangel's section for as many extra men as I want. Sun Li has arranged for Agent Brewster to keep a smaller unit from Zebra Squad on stand-by in case they're needed." He stared harder at the older man. "Unless you have some reason why I shouldn't attack Horn's stronghold?"  
  
"You're too involved with the operatives," Newman shot back, a lame and obvious bluster. "It's clouding your judgement."  
  
"His judgement has been pretty good in the past," Mike remarked from behind. "I'm willing to go with it now."  
  
"So am I," Jo said soberly, chewing on her painted nail. "String is like my own cousin."  
  
"And Saint John is part of the team," Mike added by way of encouragement. "We have to take care of his kid brother for him if nothing else."  
  
Jason offered them both a grateful smile, little more than a twitch of his neat mustache, then lifted his chin briefly at the sound of rotors overhead. "Sounds like it's landing outside. Could be Officer O'Shaunessey."  
  
Indeed it was. Still clad in uniform, Caitlin and her partner Ramon Gutierrez entered moments later, both looking grim. They stopped in the doorway, staring from agent to agent to gun with open mouths. "Got you a prisoner?" Caitlin asked at last, tucking away her sunglasses. "Was he responsible for what happened to Hawke?"  
  
"We were just discussing the matter," Mike said in a dangerous, hard tone. "Weren't we, Apollo?"  
  
"Apollo?" Gutierrez echoed blankly. "He's another spy?"  
  
Rivers chuckled humorlessly. "Maybe an ex-spy."  
  
"Never mind that!" Jo abandoned her fingernail to clasp her hands together at the waist. "Do you know where String is?"  
  
The appeal was directed at the CHiPS officers; it was Ramon who answered. "I asked a pal of mine on the Nevada Highway Patrol to look into the APB we had out on Morris and relay anything they had even if it happened to get unexpectedly cancelled. He passed the message on to some of the officers he knew."  
  
"Seems Bishop Morris made a little mistake once he hit the Las Vegas outskirts." Cait took over the story, resting her hands on her hips. "He got clocked for speeding. Officer let him go with a warning but he remembered the guy. Said he was heading out on old Gila Road."  
  
"Are there many houses on Gila Road?" Jo asked.  
  
Ramon smiled charmingly at the pretty woman. "There is one house on Gila Road, a rich man's estate about twenty miles outside the city. My buddy did a fly-by before he called me; he couldn't land because of a truck-load of armed guards on the property, but I don't think we need him to, do you?"  
  
Mike gleefully rubbed his hands together, blue eyes starting to shine. "Nope. How about it, Jason? When do we go in?"  
  
Locke considered, also looking pleased now that the time for action was near. "It's going to take me a while to scramble Epsilon Guard and get them into position -- I'm going to have to do it through Archangel's section in case Newman was working with an accomplice. Samantha, one of his Angels, needs to hear from me personally before issuing the authorization over Michael's sanction. That'll give you two enough time to give Saint John any assistance he needs to finish those repairs on Airwolf, then you can rendezvous with Epsilon Guard en route. Do you have a map of the area?" Jo produced one from the desk; Jason spread it out, studying it for some minutes before stabbing a spot with his forefinger. "Here, Diablo Canyon. That'll put us about seven miles from target."  
  
"Hope y'all don't think you're leavin' me behind," Caitlin snapped, pulling the brim of her CHiPs cap a little lower over her eyes. "Hawke ... I mean, Stringfellow and Michael are friends of mine, too. And I have had experience in this kind of action with the Firm before."  
  
Gutierrez fingered the service revolver strapped to his waist. "Same here. Two tours in Viet Nam and a lot'a years on the Force make me pretty good at this sort of thing too."  
  
Locke eyed them thoughtfully. "Caitlin, you're already privy to what we're trying to keep under wraps; we can use you. Officer Gutierrez, I'd be grateful if you would take charge of keeping Mr. Newman incommunicado until after the prisoners are freed. I'm afraid I can't trust anyone at Company headquarters until we've had a chance for a proper interrogation."  
  
Ramon's wide mouth turned down under his mustache. "Hate to miss the party but okay, if that's what you want."  
  
That settled, Jason nodded curt thanks and turned to his own team. "Mike, you and Jo take off now. Saint John is going to need your help if you're going to keep to schedule. I'll go with Officer O'Shaunessey in her chopper."  
  
Preliminary plans laid, the team had begun to mobilize but stopped en masse when Newman uttered a grunting protest. "Wait! You can't do this!"  
  
Mike, already in the doorway, turned to look at him, nearly knocking over Jo, who had stood to follow the blond pilot out. "Maybe you don't understand," Rivers began, deadly quiet. "Those are two of ours out there, and we're going to go get them whether you like it or not."  
  
"There's more at stake...." Newman gazed appealingly from one unsympathetic face to the other, his own features crumbling. "They have Amy," he exclaimed at last in a hopeless voice.  
  
"Amy? Your daughter?" Startled, Locke let the gun droop slightly although not turning it away from the older agent. Captor and captive regarded each other grimly for long seconds while the others stared. "I think you'd better tell us about it, Donald."  
  
Newman folded both hands in front of him, professional aplomb fraying badly. "My wife died two years ago when Amy was six. Considering the nature of my business and the amount of time I spend away from home, I thought it best to send her to a boarding school where she'll have constant attention. I chose Mt. Ephraim Academy for Girls because of its reputation."  
  
"It has on-site security?" Mike asked, solid body still tensed for the impending action.  
  
Newman nodded vaguely. "A very good security team on the campus. Amy was kidnapped while she was on her way home for a long weekend. We ... we were going to spend some time together...."  
  
"When did they contact you?" Jason asked, interrupting the emotional segue.  
  
Brown eyes blinked nervously, then Newman swallowed, his fight for control evident. "Less than two hours after she was supposed to deplane in Los Angeles, while I was still trying to trace her movements with the school and airline. They let me talk to her for a few minutes every week to prove she's still alive. They said that if I cooperated she would stay that way."  
  
"Was it Horn who called you?" Caitlin asked, her voice hard edged. She'd had her own experiences with the millionaire industrialist in the past.  
  
The man called Apollo nodded. "Somehow he knew about Archangel's transfer to Hong Kong and that the Airwolf Project was assigned to my division. He set up a meeting with me, told me in no uncertain terms that I was working for him now, and that even a hint of disloyalty would result in my daughter's return one piece at a time."  
  
"You don't have to tell me what that rattlesnake was after." Caitlin's green eyes grew narrow, her Texas twang tauter. "Airwolf. He's made two tries already, him and that daughter of his. Angelica."  
  
"Tell us the rest, Donald," Jason urged, resting the pistol on his knee.  
  
Having obviously decided to come clean, Newman took a deep breath and slumped in his seat. "I know about Horn's earlier attempts at acquiring Airwolf. I pulled his file as soon as he kidnapped Amy, and he was more than willing to brag about what he'd already accomplished. Horn has been planning this for three months. He--"  
  
"Oh, mah lord," Caitlin breathed, her fingers flying to her lips. "Three months ago.... That bomb that killed Dominic?!"  
  
Newman ran weary fingers through his gray streaked hair. "Horn found out that the Company had contracted Blackjack Buchard to get Saint John Hawke out of Cambodia. He bribed Buchard to hold on to Hawke for trade instead of turning him over to us, then hired a mechanic...."  
  
"One of our mechanics?" Jo gasped. "Not Everett!"  
  
"He means an assassin," Jason explained with distaste.  
  
The older agent nodded confirmation. "Horn hired an assassin to plant that bomb in Santini's Jetranger. I gather his plan was to isolate the younger brother and throw him off enough so he'd more readily agree to a trade. Unfortunately, Hawke ... Stringfellow was caught in the blast and killed as well ... or so Horn thought." He paused. "I think the assassin's name was Rudolph Oldman. Oldman was found in a ditch two days later with his throat cut."  
  
"Then Uncle Dom was avenged," Jo said in an uncharacteristically hard voice.  
  
"Yeah," Caitlin muttered, sharing a look with the other woman.  
  
"It also looks like Saint John was right to keep String under wraps," Mike added, smoothing a wrinkle in his black slacks. "This Horn character probably would have made another try for him before he was recovered enough to defend himself."  
  
Jason waved them to silence. "Go on, Donald. Why did they keep Amy if they thought Stringfellow Hawke was dead?"  
  
Newman took a deep breath and continued. "Horn was working on another plan to get Airwolf. He was reportedly associating with Dr. Anastasia Zarkov, the Russian psychologist, so I'm assuming it had to do with brainwashing one of you, probably Saint John Hawke. That would have amused Horn no end."  
  
"Saint John suspected the murderer would try again," Jo said absently. "He used to take a lot of precautions every time he went to visit String in the hospital -- so many, I never even suspected what he was up to." She fell silent, her blue eyes piercing Newman's brown ones like daggers. "You knew about the bomb that nearly killed String?"  
  
Newman shook his head definitely. "I didn't know anything until after it had gone up -- not that I could have done anything about it anyway with Amy's life being threatened. After the ... accident Horn backed off for a while -- had to revise a lot of his strategy, I think, to fit the new team. When word got around that Stringfellow Hawke was alive, he became Horn's new target, and everything started going forward again."  
  
"He really hated Hawke," Caitlin said quietly. "If you'd seen what he did to him the first time...."  
  
Heedless of the interruption, the agent went on, "He forced me to send the messages changing the meeting location from the cabin to a bar so those two could be captured together -- I still don't know what he wants with Michael. As Mr. Locke surmised, it was also me who aborted the investigation to give Horn's people enough time to do what they needed to do. Once they'd gotten Airwolf safely out of the country, they were going to let Amy go."  
  
"Kidnappers don't just let their victims go," Gutierrez said from the corner, speaking for the first time since the explanations had begun.  
  
"Especially not snake bellies like John Bradford Horn," Cait added venomously. "He'll kill all three of 'em soon as look at 'em." She ran one hand angrily through her red hair. "Once we bust Hawke out, I know he'll be glad to help put Horn away permanently."  
  
Newman tensed again, his shoulders coming up. "Wait. There's something else you should know. Don't count on Hawke -- either one of them -- to help you. Horn has an ace up his sleeve."  
  
"What ace?" Rivers demanded, taking a menacing step closer to the huddled man.  
  
"Dominic Santini."  
  
"That's ridiculous." That was Jo, blue eyes flashing dangerously. She tossed her shoulder length blonde hair back in a furious gesture. "I saw Uncle Dom die. I buried him!"  
  
"You buried Stringfellow Hawke, too," Apollo retorted wearily. "That's the way you buried Santini." He shook his head sadly, a crushed man looking a decade past his years. "Do you remember who it was that told you that Santini had passed away?"  
  
Jo opened her mouth then her jaw sagged even further as realization set in. "It was you working for Horn! They brought Uncle Dom to the emergency room and then ... you came out and told me he was gone."  
  
Apollo wrung his folded hands, head bowed with regret. "That wasn't far from the truth. The trauma center got him stabilized for transport, then Horn's men airlifted him to Las Vegas. I don't know what happened after that but I was given the impression he's still alive, maybe even recovered by now."  
  
That elicited reaction from all quarters, the most vehement from Caitlin O'Shaunessey. "Not only is that a pretty near inhuman way to treat Dom, it's one of the cruelest things I can think of anyone doing to poor Hawke." Her thin lips drew into a pinched line. "Losing Dom would've near killed him, and even I've been grieving him ever since!"  
  
"So have I," Jo put in as loudly, "and Saint John! He came back from Viet Nam believing Uncle Dom was murdered!"  
  
"I'm sorry. I had no choice." Newman stood, ignoring the gun to spread both hands imploringly in Jason's direction. "And neither do you! Your people are hostages, too. If you try anything, they'll kill your friends. And Amy. She's only eight."  
  
There was a general silence while this new information was absorbed. "I can't excuse what you did," Caitlin said at last, studying the old carpet on the floor, "but I'm not going to stand by and watch a child die, either."  
  
"No one's going to die," Jason assured them, not without sympathy. "This simply means we'll have to double coordinate the assault to air and ground. We'll need to send a team in after the hostages first, while the choppers and shock troops provide a diversion. It'll make the final cleanup harder, but it's worked before."  
  
Newman gulped audibly, brown eyes anxious. "If there's a chance.... Jason, you've got to let me go with you! I need to be in on this!"  
  
Locke's refusal was immediate and a mirror of that in his comrades' expressions. "I'm sorry, Donald, I'm afraid not. After all that's happened we wouldn't be able to trust you in a firefight." He turned slightly, picking up a pad and pen from the desk and tossing them one at a time to the older man. "Draw us a diagram of the building and grounds -- as much information as you can remember. We'll use that as a map for the assault."  
  
The other agent only stared at him, making no move to catch either object. "I've never been to the estate, but I can tell you one other thing -- Horn mentioned a nearby abandoned airstrip where they plan to hide Airwolf, and there's only one in the area that fits the bill. It's called Larchmont Field, or it was some years ago." He hung his head again, looking more downcast than ever. "They didn't consider me much of a threat," he added in a low voice. "Not even worth keeping a secret from."  
  
Convinced of the beaten man's sincerity, Locke stowed his pistol in the shoulder holster under his jacket. "Don't worry, we'll bring Amy back safely. I promise." He waited until the older man had returned a dispirited nod, then gestured at Jo and Mike. "I'll call Saint John and tell him what's going down. You three will rendezvous with Epsilon Guard at Diablo Canyon. Officer O'Shaunessey and I will assist Zebra Squad at Larchmont Field. I'll clear it with her captain later."  
  
"But I wanna help String and Dom!" Caitlin protested, taking a step forward.  
  
Jason's black eyes held promise. "You will. After all, if Airwolf isn't at the Lair, Hawke might go to Larchmont Field anyway; if so, I want someone there he recognizes. We'll secure that area first, then join Airwolf and Epsilon Guard at Horn's estate. Okay?"  
  
She bit her lip but nodded curtly. "Okay. Just remember -- Angelica is mine." She slapped her partner on the back. "You take good care of our information source, Ramon! He's gonna be standing trial later on."  
  
"Ain't nuthin' gonna happen to him while I'm around," the Latin officer returned with one of his cheerful grins.  
  
Newman slumped back in his chair, clasping his hands despondently between his knees. "If you don't come back with Amy, it won't matter what happens to me anyway."  
  
"Trust me, Donald." Locke stood and waved the team ahead of him for the door. "Move out, people. We meet at Diablo Canyon in two hours, thirty minutes for the final assault. This time John Bradford Horn doesn't escape.  
  
"And neither does his daughter," Caitlin added grimly, old hatreds making her eyes grow dark.  
  
*** 


	21. Chapter 21

Saint John Hawke looked at his watch, not even bothering to suppress a huge yawn. It was now past noontime and he'd been here at the Lair since the afternoon before, closer to a twenty-four hour stretch than he was comfortable admitting. Mike should be on his way back by now; he'd been at the Lair until about seven that morning, then had had to return to Van Nuys for parts, tools and a much needed nap, while Hawke had contented himself with nodding off for a couple of hours in Airwolf's flight commander's seat. Saint John would be glad to see Rivers; the younger pilot's companionable chatter was a welcome diversion from the disturbing visions that plagued him, every one of them centering around his missing brother. After fifteen years as a prisoner of war, the older Hawke had no trouble imagining what Stringfellow could be suffering at the hands of his captors, and he was facing it all alone ... or might as well be.  
  
Saint John wrinkled his long nose, distrust for the man code named Archangel a sour pill. He had to admit that, contrary to his earlier statement, String always had been a pretty good judge of character; actually, he was far less likely to accept anyone on faith than most people thanks to an overly suspicious nature developed the hard way on the battlefields of 'Nam. Obviously, that suspicion did not extend to Archangel, however much Saint John wished it would. His eyes narrowed at the memory of the closer than expected camaraderie displayed by the two after Michael's rescue from a Mexican castle last month. More than a simple working relationship, the word friendship might even apply as Mike Rivers had pointed out, and Saint John Hawke liked that not one bit. Jason Locke being the sole exception and him only recently so, the bronze haired pilot distrusted agents of all types, and, thanks to several missions sanctioned during a long-ended war, Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III most of all. Twenty years doesn't change the fact that three of my closest friends and their teams died carrying out his orders in 'Nam ... including, if scuttlebutt is right, Michael's own brother. And now he wants mine? Suspicious nature or not, Saint John was certain that when it came to this man, his brother's judgement had to be faulty.  
  
"Or is yours?" innate honesty made him ask himself aloud. He stared at the wiring diagram he'd been studying, seeing not blue paper but a seventeen- year-old boy just arrived in the high country and more elated at seeing his older brother than he was afraid of the guerilla smart Viet Cong. Saint John had been even less afraid; so long as String was with him and old buddy Mace Taggert, the boy would be safe -- the two older pilots taught him well and would gladly have given their lives to ensure that.  
  
But they'd both been wrong about Mace Taggert, hadn't they.  
  
The scene shifted on the screen of blue, and Saint John now stared at the face of a mature man -- harder perhaps, more world weary and world worn, but in his older brother's eyes little-changed from the boy-soldier of long ago. He and String had watched out for each other all their lives -- the younger man's fifteen year quest bore testimony to that undying fact. It bothered Saint John to think that his brother had been forced into a devil's deal with the platinum-haired, calculatingly cunning Archangel for his sake. Not that I wouldn't do the same thing if it would bring String home right now.  
  
I'll bet Dom didn't trust him, either, added itself, bringing some germ of satisfaction. And it was Dom who really protected String's back while I was gone, not Michael. But with Dom gone, I'm the one who's supposed to be watching out for my brother, just like he always watches out for me. And you're doing a real good job at it, too, he told himself with some self- contempt.  
  
Determinedly he tried to concentrate on the diagram, but despite himself his mind wandered back to the last evening he and String had spent together. Scorning the usual aerial transport to the cabin, Saint John had taken a short vacation from both Santini Air and the Company to ride his off-road motorcycle the torturous route up the mountain, otherwise accessible only by the sure-footed ponies the local Indians had once used on their rare visits to the summit. Once there, he and String had spent three days fishing the lake, exploring remembered trails and simply being together -- something they'd had little of since Saint John's return from Asia. String had spent the first six weeks after the rescue in the hospital recovering from the terrible injuries he'd suffered in the explosion that had claimed Dominic Santini's life. Saint John still felt an ache when he remembered realizing at long last his dream of coming home only to find one family member dead and the other nearly so. But String, at least, had recovered, and for that, Saint John would be eternally grateful. The hope of being reunited with his younger brother had been one of the stays that the ex-prisoner of war had clung to during his long internment -- the one that had kept him alive and sane. But the years apart had produced an awkwardness between them; they were only now starting to regain the easy rapport that had bonded them during their early years. Those three days had been set aside to address that lack.  
  
Little of what they talked about was of consequence -- the gradual reweaving process would take time and this tentative communication was only a beginning. Still, toward the end they had been able to expose a small portion of their hearts. Saint John remembered the sadness in his brother's face -- the ghosts that haunted his eyes -- when he had finally broken down and spoken of a woman mentioned previously only in the throes of delirium. Gabrielle Ademure had managed to break through the defensive barriers String had built around his heart since Viet Nam, only to die horribly at the hands of Airwolf's mad creator, Charles Moffett, leaving Stringfellow isolated and grieving once again.  
  
For his part Saint John had offered the memory of Maridel Van Thung, a woman the older brother had known while still a prisoner in Laos. They had worked the fields together by day, and by night had shared the human warmth Saint John had been denied too many years. She'd been a young woman despite the lined face and wasted body Laotian slavery had wrought on her, her passions undampened by the systematic abuses of their captors, her heart full of tenderness. They had been separated when Hawke was transferred nearer the border, never to see each other again. He sighed; after three years he wondered if Maridel were alive or dead. He hoped she'd found someone else to love wherever she was. She deserved that much, at least.  
  
Once more Hawke returned to the task at hand, knowing that String's life might depend on whatever firepower he could come up with for the upcoming battle. Mike and he had accomplished much over the long night. The targeting sensors were shorted out by the shell that had penetrated Airwolf's heavy black plating; they'd had to trace back every wire individually from the point of impact, replacing many of the modules they were connected to. The Armaments Deployment and Firing pod lay in pieces, although they had at least managed to reconstruct the main components for easy reassembly. Another few hours should see an end to the project -- not counting the gaping holes still decorating the helicopter's skin and windshield. They would require new metal and glass plates to repair properly; until then the temporary patches were literally held on by glue -- space-age, maybe, but still glue. I'm willing to take a chance on them if it'll help String, Hawke thought stoutly.  
  
He rubbed red eyes and reached for the specialized screwdriver the Pentagon had had to invent to install the Winrow joint in Airwolf's belly. Most of the tools were specialized, the instruments computer calibrated, the sensors and chips unique. The gestalt was the most deadly combat weapon in the world; unfortunately, it also made for repair hassles Saint John hadn't had to deal with back in 'Nam, not even when he was flying what his mechanics had called aerial deathtraps.  
  
The low beeping sound brought Hawke's head up from the circuit diagram he'd been consulting. He placed it on the floor and uncurled his large frame from its cross-legged position under Airwolf's flank. He leaned against the black metal for a moment and knuckled his eyes with one grimy fist; they were underscored with purple shadows, symptoms of the long hours he'd put in on the damaged helicopter.  
  
He heaved a deep sigh and traversed the rough-hewn cavern to the surprisingly modern computer array set in a circle on the west side, taking a moment to glance up to where he could see the sky. It was bright blue and cloudless, the sun just peeping down the stone chimney as it did for a short while near the noon hour.  
  
The beeping came again as Hawke reached the first bank of equipment. He unhooked a microphone from its catch and flicked a button, bringing it to his lips. "Talk to me," he said without introduction. Anyone deliberately calling him on this special scrambled frequency already knew who he was.  
  
Jason Locke's controlled baritone came through the expensive speakers loud and clear. "Got news for you, Saint John."  
  
Hawke straightened hopefully. "About String?"  
  
"Yeah." There was a grimness to the other's voice that tightened every muscle in the pilot's body. "I've got two cases breaking wide open, and your brother is smack dab in the middle of both of them. We think he's being held by an old enemy of his, an industrialist named John Bradford Horn."  
  
Saint John scratched the light blond beard shadowing his long, narrow jaw, thoughtful lines appearing in his forehead. "I don't know the name. You said String's been up against him before?"  
  
"Twice." There was a murmur off-mike, then Locke's voice came back as clear as ever. "What we're dealing with is a very rich fugitive with access to the best technology in the world and a thirst for more. He's the one behind the weapons raids Archangel was investigating -- the one Bishop Morris was involved in."  
  
"Then this is all about money?" Hawke asked incredulously, wiping his hands on the tan overall covering his jeans and flannel shirt.  
  
One could almost hear Locke's shrug through the mike. "Money means safety if applied properly, and Horn can use some of that -- he's still under a Federal indictment on a score of charges ranging from bribery to homicide. He fled the country and has been hiding out under assumed names for the last five years."  
  
Hawke absorbed this all silently, his expression closed though worry gleamed behind his gray eyes. "So what has this got to do with String?"  
  
The black agent paused, took a deep breath. "A weapon like Airwolf could have bought him a haven -- a small Caribbean nation, for example. Naturally, your brother was somewhat disinclined to give her up."  
  
"Naturally," Hawke echoed with a hint of a smile.  
  
"Horn suffered a considerable power loss during his first encounter with your brother, and has been scrambling to rebuild his empire ever since."  
  
Hawke's mouth drew into a thin line. "And what did String suffer?" There was a hesitation at the other end of the mike, as though the black agent was gathering himself. "Jason," Saint John repeated patiently, "what did String suffer?"  
  
Reluctantly, "Quite a bit. Hawke was lured to Horn's base, drugged -- probably tortured -- and brainwashed into obedience. According to his file...." He stopped and cleared his throat, scraping Hawke's nerves raw with the delay.  
  
"What?" the pilot prodded impatiently, curling his left hand into a fist. There was a tapping noise through the mike -- a computer keyboard, Jason checking his sources.  
  
"Information coming up now," Locke replied a moment later. "According to his file, he most certainly suffered a great deal of psychological and emotional trauma in the experience, and what few samples of the drug we were able to retrieve from Horn's base of ops tested as an inorganic, probably remaining in his tissues for a long time after exposure."  
  
"What do you mean, 'probably'?" the pilot demanded. "Didn't a doctor examine him?"  
  
"Treatment was refused, according to his file." Amusement entered in his strong voice. "Doctor's remarks are basically unprintable, but they include some choice epithets on the subject of foolhardy stubbornness."  
  
An unwilling smile teased Hawke's thin lips as well, then was gone, blasted into nonexistence on a wave of fury. "Do you think Horn will try that trick again?"  
  
"Who knows. You just be careful up there. Torture and drugs can break anyone, including your brother. He may very well disclose Airwolf's location -- or worse, he may come for her himself."  
  
"He won't hurt me," Hawke returned with dutiful conviction.  
  
"Maybe, maybe not," the black agent returned cynically, "but Stringfellow wasn't captured alone, and what he won't accomplish, Archangel might. Don't forget, you're dealing with two very dangerous men, and one of them is not related to you."  
  
"I'll be careful." Saint John sank wearily into the chair by the console and rubbed his eyes again. They were starting to sting, anger tightening his rugged face. "You have a location on either this Horn or Bishop yet?"  
  
"Yes, thanks to Officers O'Shaunessey and Gutierrez. I'm putting together an assault team now, to go in and free the prisoners. How near ready is Airwolf to join it?"  
  
Hawke glanced at the parts still scattered across the hard-packed dirt floor, and bit his lip. "Two hours without help. Is Mike still with you?"  
  
"He and Jo are already on their way. ETA to the Lair is another thirty minutes. They can brief you more fully when they arrive."  
  
Saint John nodded, resigned to another delay but relieved that the end was at least in sight. "Good. Then we're going to go get my brother."  
  
Jason uttered a firm acknowledgement and signed off, and, with the new vitality of forthcoming action, Saint John returned to his repair work on Airwolf, determined that the great gunship would be ready for the rescue attempt. As a concession to Locke's warning, he buckled on a serviceable Browning High Power automatic in a sturdy leather holster, its weight evoking flashes of a long-ago reality superimposed over this present one. For seconds at a time Saint John no longer inhabited this cool, arid chamber on a desert plateau; rather, it was the oppressive heat and humidity of the Delta region he felt even more than the dryer climes of the north, the stench of rotting vegetation and blood filling his combat- heightened senses. His body remembered well the tension of imminent peril that had burdened every waking or sleeping hour, and the fatigue he felt now was intensified many fold under that echo.  
  
It was with difficulty that Saint John Hawke fought his way out of the past, using his worry for his captured brother as a tow line back to the present. Is this how you felt when I was MIA, String? he wondered as the cavern reappeared and the Asian jungle faded into the eternal background it inhabited. As though your insides were turned inside out? How did you live with this for nearly half your life? I'd trade being a prisoner for this role any day.  
  
Forcibly he turned his attention back to the task at hand, striving with all his might to banish visions of his brother's peril until he could do something about it. It was difficult -- memories of pain and anticipated death lived on in the ex-P.O.W. despite the three months he had been back in the United States. Back home, he told himself with relish, the sheer joy of freedom dislodging the worry for a single instant. But with a single flaw: to Saint John, home meant family, and family was String.  
  
Even as he worked, his combat trained senses continued to scan his surroundings, a subliminal radar stretched to the full for any signs of unexpected company. He concentrated briefly, sharp ears registering the eerie banshee wail of the wind in the tunnels, allowing the ambience of the earth to flow around and through him, seeking a disturbance in the background aura he was so used to. He heard a rustle from the top of the stone chimney and lifted his head toward the visible sky; a dark shape detached itself from the wall and soared heavenward in its eternal hunt for food. Beyond that, the aerie was peaceful and serene.  
  
Thirty minutes later he picked up his head, attention shifting from the circuit boards to the entrance, every muscle tensed and on alert. Although there had been no sound to warn him, he knew without knowing that he was no longer alone. He rose silently, positioning himself by the only tunnel access to the chamber, flattened himself against the wall and held his breath; it was a long understanding that if he knew the enemy was near, then conversely, they probably sensed his presence as well. Who surprised whom was often only a matter of timing in war.  
  
Long minutes passed while the intruder presumably sized up the scene, then Saint John's patience was rewarded by the appearance of a golden-brown head through the entryway. He coiled ... and sprang! catching the man around the chest, the power in his leap plus not-inconsiderable weight bringing them both crashing to the ground.  
  
Saint John, landing by design on top, recovered first. He reared up onto his knees, straddling the intruder, one fist cocked and ready to strike -- to release all the pent up anger and frustration of these interminable three days in one single, devastating blow. Muscles bunched ... but the punch never landed, for at that moment he recognized the young man staring up at him from the ground through vague blue eyes. "String!" Saint John exclaimed, a broad smile breaking out. "Man, am I glad to see you!" His brother seemed to be having a little trouble breathing -- no surprise with one hundred and ninety pounds still sitting on his chest. Saint John rolled off and stood, bringing the other smoothly up with him by a firm grip on both arms. "C'mon, let me help you. You had us pretty worried!"  
  
He tightened his hold supportively when the younger man swayed, and Saint John felt the red fury rise again when he got his first clear look at the ashen, marked face. "Someone's been using you for a punching bag?" he asked in a tight voice, visualizing his own fist returning the pleasure to whomever had had the audacity to touch his kid brother. He used his thumb to tip the other's head up and to the side, gray eyes narrowing when he spied the long bruise on String's temple, still crusted with blood. "Bet you're sporting a nasty concussion, there. Head hurt?"  
  
Whatever response Saint John Hawke might have been expecting, it most certainly wasn't the haymaker that started low and traveled in an arc to terminate on the point of his chin. He flew backwards, slamming into the cavern wall, then sliding to the dirt floor. He shook his head, trying to eliminate the multi-colored stars that obscured parts of his vision, dazedly watching while the younger man limped towards him. String wrapped one arm around his own midsection and knelt at Saint John's side, using the rough wall as support. He snatched the automatic from the holster and dragged himself erect, backing out of range before the older pilot had a chance to react. "Don't move," he growled, leveling the weapon.  
  
Saint John froze, not liking what he saw in those dulled blue eyes. He studied the other closely, seeking some hint of recognition, finding only confusion and hostility instead. Jason had mentioned drugs and brainwashing as a possibility; looked like he'd called this one. Very cautiously the tall blond raised one hand, rubbing his sore jaw ruefully; he didn't think it was broken despite the way it felt. "Nice sucker punch," he mumbled, trying to keep his tone even while using his tongue to probe for loose teeth. "I was certainly a sucker to let you land it." He stopped, a flash of scarlet on white bandages catching his attention. "Your hand is bleeding," he added very quietly.  
  
"G-get up," String ordered in a low growl, punctuating the order with a waggle of the gun.  
  
Saint John obeyed slowly, making no sudden moves. "Don't you recognize me?" he asked, coming to his feet. "It's me -- Saint John."  
  
String blinked, his youthful face transforming into a mask. "Liar," he snarled, backing away a step, and Saint John did not miss the quaver in his voice or the new pain in his unfocused eyes ... nor the low click of a hammer being cocked.  
  
"This doesn't have anything to do with the time I broke your skateboard when you were seven, does it?" the elder Hawke asked, trying a light approach, striving to make contact. "I bought you a new one. Remember the Red Ryder? You said it was even better than the old--"  
  
"Shut up." The words were flat and cold and vicious. String stared at him -- through him. "They told me you'd try that," he went on, an agony of emotion in his voice. "Try to trick me again."  
  
Keep him talking, try to find out what they did to him. Try to get through... preferably before he shoots me. "Who told you?" Saint John probed, hands held carefully at his sides.  
  
The question seemed to confuse the younger man but, like the warrior he was, he dismissed it in favor of more immediate concerns. "What are you doing in here? How did you find this place?"  
  
"Just doing a few repairs." Saint John jerked his thumb at the deadly black helicopter on the lighted pad; from where they were, the disassembled ADF pod and open access hatch into Airwolf's innards could clearly be seen. "That's my job, remember? I've been taking care of Airwolf for the last three months while you were up on Grandad's mountain."  
  
The gun aimed at Saint John's chest shook, and String, a consummate professional in the art of war, brought up his other hand to steady it, another look of confusion crossing his face. "Three months?" he echoed blankly, and Saint John nearly smiled, coming to a sudden realization. They knew they couldn't make him betray me, he thought smugly, so they tried to blot me out. They don't know me -- I don't blot easily. Not with my own brother.  
  
"Sure, three months," he answered, still in that easy, non-threatening voice he'd used for years to persuade his stubborn younger brother to do things his way. "You remember, don't you? That was when Colonel Buchard was holding me as a prisoner until Jo, Jason and Mike used Airwolf to get me out of Burma. I came to you in the hospital after--"  
  
"After Dom died." The younger Hawke blinked again, his dulled eyes glistening with tears. "But I saw Dom die...?" He trailed off, the gun dipping several inches, and Saint John took a chance by stepping closer, arms spread.  
  
"String...."  
  
The gun centered again, String's face hardening. He looked on the verge of collapse, but Saint John was familiar with the power inherent in his brother's slim build, knew from of old how long the boy could continue on adrenalin and grit alone. "I don't know what's going on or who you are, but the Lair's been compromised. I have to get Airwolf out of here. There's on-only one safe place...."  
  
Saint John's stomach balked as though someone had poured lead down his throat. String had to be stopped; if he escaped with Airwolf, they might never see him again; more, neither Epsilon Guard not Zebra Squad would survive an attack on Horn's estate if the deadly gunship was used against them. Saint John had to do something now, even if it meant attacking String physically -- something that would be harder than it looked despite the younger man's unsteady stance. Of course, intruded the unpleasant thought, if String shot him down, neither one of them would enjoy the experience. "How could this place be compromised by your own brother?" the older Hawke insinuated, continuing to push by taking another risky step. "I thought you always trusted me."  
  
Deliberation was obviously a chore for the younger man, his emotions so visibly raw as to interfere with his rational capacity. "You're a liar," he snarled, retreating a step. "My brother is ... he's a p-prisoner...."  
  
"Was a prisoner," Saint John interrupted, the even tones leaving his voice in favor of urgency. "Come on, String, think about it. Remember the hospital -- how I came to you there -- took you to Marty Bergman's clinic where you could get some treatment." He spread his hands appealingly. "You spent about six weeks there -- I stayed with you as much as I could without giving away your location -- told everybody I was in the mountains meditating so they wouldn't ask questions."  
  
"After the explosion," the younger man murmured abstractedly, touching his temple lightly. "Jetranger...."  
  
"Why don't you sit down, String," Saint John suggested, swallowing his distaste to adapt the persuasive tones he'd heard Archangel use. "Sit down or fall down." There was no satisfaction when Michael's tack didn't work, so Saint John tried a new one. "We spent some time together up in the cabin last week. I told you about Maridel. You told me about Gabrielle."  
  
"Gabrielle," the brown haired pilot echoed in a choked voice, really looking at him for the first time. "Saint John, I...." He took a doubtful step forward, and Saint John felt the leaden weights fall away -- his brother was going to be all right! Stringfellow parted his lips to speak, then stopped, head cocked in a listening attitude. Saint John felt it again, too -- the sure knowledge that someone was near. A moment later the sound of helicopter blades became audible simultaneous with a cheep from the transceiver station behind Airwolf. String's face hardened, the disbelieving glance he gave Saint John tightening the older man's heart. "Over there," the younger pilot said, gesturing to the wall with his gun. "If you make a sound, I'll kill you."  
  
Saint John sighed and obeyed. Bad timing, Mike, he groaned silently. I was getting through -- I know I was. He cursed the interruption, hoping that he could reestablish contact with his injured brother again before it was too late.  
  
* 


	22. Chapter 22

Unaware of the drama taking place nearby, Mike Rivers maneuvered SA's little Bell helicopter dexterously across the mesa, choosing near ground level for his approach. He wove around granite rocks the size of skyscrapers, the remains of some geologic cataclysm dating back to the time the continent was yet in its infancy. A touch on both stick and collective lowered them gently next to one of these majestic spires, and only from this angle could be seen the gaping maw of a cavern nature had carved millennia before. An expert blast of the rotors eased the Bell forward slowly until the overhang shielded it from satellite surveillance; it was only then he cut the power completely, dropping the helicopter down onto her skids.  
  
Mike unbuckled his harness, head unconsciously cocked toward the low whup- whup of the decelerating blades. He loved that sound -- it represented flight and freedom and power of the skies, three elements that had driven him into the Air Force so many years before. Even now his black cotton shirt and stylishly loose pants felt less familiar against his skin than did a uniform. Or, better yet, a flight suit.  
  
"We have arrived," he told the pretty blonde in the passenger's seat to his left. "Lingerie, negligees and women's apparel, all out."  
  
The blonde curled her lip, falling into the pattern of friendly banter that constituted so much of their rapport. "Negligees instead of boxer shorts?" she gibed, hanging her headset neatly on the radio volume knob, then climbing out to join him by the chopper's nose. "Why, Mike, the things we don't know about our friends."  
  
"I look jutht dar-ling in pink," Rivers lisped back, striking a hand-on-hip pose. His eyes sparkled mischievously, the imp ever living just behind his light blue eyes. "I know -- my girlfriend told me so."  
  
"Which one?" she sneered amiably back, deftly adjusting her green jumpsuit until it hung properly on her lush curves. "Kathleen? Debbie? Alicia?"  
  
"If you caaaaan't be with the one you love...." Mike caroled in a pleasant if off-key baritone. Jo clapped her hand to her mouth to stifle her giggle, and Mike grinned. Jo was a fun companion; she had a great laugh and was easy on the eyes to boot -- not to mention having one dynamite body that jumpsuit wasn't hiding. Her only flaw was being semi-resistant to his boyish charms. Guess nobody's perfect, he thought wryly. Oh, well. They might not be a couple, but he liked Jo, and being friends with the vivacious blonde was almost as good!  
  
He'd realized some time ago that Jo's interests did not lie with him. She dated occasionally, but between the two, she was more apt to gravitate towards Saint John Hawke than Mike. Only natural, he supposed, since they'd grown up together. But Hawke's reactions to the woman were more brother than lover, a holdover, perhaps, from the vacations they'd all spent together with Dominic Santini, and the old pilot's welding of them into the large, close-knit Italian family he and Jo had been born a part of. Mike wondered what they had all been like back then, before Viet Nam had sapped the lighthearted merriment that only now and again peeked through Saint John's somber mien, and hung a cloak of melancholy across Stringfellow so heavy as to depress Mike every time he was near.  
  
Generous and emotionally expansive, Rivers considered his associations an open chain, unbound and easy to join. Friends of friends -- or even brothers -- were always welcome to become part of the US that was Mike Rivers' world. Thus, he was unprepared for the closed circle that comprised the Hawke brothers' relationship, generated by old needs and intensified by fifteen years distance. When they were together, the exclusiveness of that mutual support often shut Mike and even Jo out of the equation, and Mike found himself resenting the fact. Most of it was from Stringfellow, true, but not lacking in Saint John, who neither discussed nor shared his brother in any way. Not that Saint John had ever shunned Rivers, for they were best friends and nearly inseparable companions. But where baby brother was concerned, there was only a blank wall presented to the world, and Mike was on the wrong side of that wall.  
  
Saint John's protecting him, Mike had realized from the outset. Baby brother is afraid of getting hurt, and Saint John's going to make sure it doesn't happen. Guess I can't fault him for that even if it hurts that I'm considered one of those threats. It wasn't until much later that Mike discerned that it was not him personally that Stringfellow Hawke looked upon as a threat but the prospective friendships themselves, for it was through his emotions that he could be made vulnerable. Mike knew the wall both brothers sustained would crumble if Stringfellow were to allow himself to be integrated into the group -- they could easily replace that exclusive possessiveness with open camaraderie. Stringfellow, however, showed no inclination to join them, nor any weakening in the stony barriers he maintained. Mike considered that a shame -- he had a sneaking suspicion that behind that wary exterior might lie a pretty good friend to have.  
  
Saint John certainly thought so. Even now his one thought was getting his brother back, and Mike knew he wouldn't care what price had to be paid to accomplish that, whether the cost be to himself, Mike or anyone else. Saint John would sacrifice us all if he had to, he grumbled silently, more team oriented than his fellows. Stringfellow ... What a name! ... isn't even one of US. Jo, Jason, Saint John and I are the new Airwolf crew and it's your unit that's supposed to come first.  
  
Frankness forced Rivers to admit that he couldn't really blame the older Hawke for his single-mindedness in rescuing String. Family was, after all, a primary concern for Mike as well. What if it was my sister June out there? he asked himself to put things back in perspective. Or my mom? I'd be bent out of shape, too. Besides, Saint John is part of the unit, and if Baby Brother is important to Saint John, I'm willing to do what it takes to get him out of whatever mess he got himself in to. Besides, I do feel sorry for the guy ... sort of.  
  
Family.... It was perhaps that sense of family that prevented Jo's semi- interest in Saint John from being returned. Saint John kept to himself and despite Mike's helpful prodding showed little romantic notions, due no doubt to the lingering and still very recent wounds of Southeast Asia. It's only been three months, after all. Rivers hoped the man would loosen up a bit more once enough time had passed for those wounds to begin to heal. Bet Jo will have the inside track then, he thought without jealousy; much as he would have enjoyed a chance with the pretty blonde, Mike didn't begrudge Saint John the attraction. The tall, bronze haired pilot was Mike's best friend, and after fifteen years under inhumane conditions, Mike supposed Hawke deserved whatever break he could get.  
  
Even now Saint John talked rarely about Viet Nam and never about the years he'd spent as a prisoner -- almost as if they'd never happened at all. There had only been that once, when Mike was bunking with Hawke while house hunting. He'd woken disoriented on a strange daybed in briefly unfamiliar surroundings, to hear a low muttering coming from the next room. Mike had padded in cautiously to find his friend thrashing on the bed, face glistening with sweat by the light of the window.  
  
"Saint John?" The man's bare shoulder had been tense when Mike touched it. Hawke had sat bolt upright, gray eyes wide and staring, the name, "String!" emerging as a gasp. Mike patted him soothingly. "Hey! Easy, pal, it's only me. You were having a nightmare."  
  
It had taken a moment for Hawke to focus on him, and Mike had recoiled at the distress in the exposed expression. Then a shudder had wracked the larger man, the tension going out of him in a rush. "Mike. String is okay?"  
  
The last was more question than statement, as though Saint John needed the reassurance. "Right as rain, pal-o-mine!" he'd returned cheerfully. "Your baby brother is sitting up on his mountain playing Grizzly Adams, happy as a clam just like always."  
  
Saint John had palmed his eyes, a deep, sad sigh escaping his parted lips. "Not so happy. He still blames himself for leaving me. Leaving me in fifteen years of...."  
  
He didn't finish the sentence -- he didn't have to. Although a combat soldier himself, Mike hadn't been in Viet Nam and could only imagine what the two brothers had experienced -- especially Saint John as a prisoner of war. What could it have been like to spend so much of your life as a virtual slave, chained and abused and worked until exhaustion sapped away even the will to live? Or searching endlessly for the brother who might well be long dead? "I can't pretend to know exactly what you went through over there," he'd begun in an encouraging voice, "but it's over. You're home, your brother is safe, and you two can move on with your lives."  
  
He hadn't understood the wistful look in the older man's eyes. "Can we?" Hawke had murmured under his breath. "I wonder...."  
  
All these thoughts flashed across Mike's mind in the few moments it took for him and Jo to traverse the outer cavern and tunnel leading to the central 'Lair' that doubled as both heliport and base of ops. They emerged into the large, cathedral like chamber, as always stopping to stare at the black death machine that was Airwolf. The sun was nearly directly overhead, light falling in a single shaft down the chimney like a spotlight, only partially reflected from the polished armor plate in a muted radiance. Set like this, Airwolf resembled nothing so much as a living being -- beautiful, sleek, lethal -- a creature of the night poised to strike.  
  
At his side, Jo too was momentarily transfixed by the vision, then something cheeped from the flashing computer terminals on the far side of the landing pad, and the spell was broken. "Probably Jason wondering where we are," she said pertly. "He's as bad as an old woman sometimes."  
  
It was the sheer unexpectedness that betrayed them, Mike realized later. He'd been careless in letting his attention range first to his musings, then Airwolf, finally Jo's words. But the presence he'd sensed in the Lair was familiar and not unwelcome, and the slight warning jangle of his inner alarms had been dismissed as unjustified. Otherwise, he might have been more prepared than he was for the man who emerged from the shadows to his right and leveled the Browning automatic dead center on his chest.  
  
"Don't move," Stringfellow Hawke ordered, the deadly menace in his voice encouraging Mike to obey without question. Jo, less experienced in such matters, smiled hesitantly and took another step.  
  
"String? Are you--?" She choked off, large eyes growing even bigger when the Browning swung in her direction. "What are you--?"  
  
"I said, don't move," the brown-haired pilot growled, limping to the side to better cover them both. "You." He jerked his head, and Saint John approached from the left of the tunnel, both hands held wide, a developing bruise darkening the point of his chin. "Get over there with them."  
  
"Sure, String," the taller man replied easily. He took his place at Jo's other side, staring into his brother's face as though searching for something. "No need to hurt anyone; we're all friends here. Aren't we, kid?"  
  
Mike wasn't so sure about that. The younger Hawke had backed away, the action bringing him more fully into the circle of artificial lights strung around the work area to augment the feeble sunlight. From what Mike could now see, the kidnappers had been anything but gentle with Stringfellow Hawke. The high cheekbones and gently rounded jaw bore several bruises, there were traces of blood at the temple and on the dirty bandages on his hands. The stiff way he stood bespoke other injuries beneath the jeans and mud-and scarlet spattered white sweater, possibly serious, and it was obvious the pilot was near collapse. Mike hoped that latter would happen soon -- he didn't fancy beating an already injured man ... nor contending with the large-bored weapon held in that none-too-steady grip.  
  
Dismissing a direct assault for the nonce, Rivers tried a smile instead, striving for distraction and hoping the confusion he sensed in the other would be enough to give his team the edge it needed to prevent disaster. "Hey, buddy," he began in a friendly tone. "We're sure glad to see you! Saint John has been pretty worried."  
  
Dull blue eyes stared at the trio without recognition, but Mike knew he'd struck home when a flash of bewilderment crossed the bruised face before the stony facade closed back in. "Saint John isn't here," the younger Hawke spat, grief sparking his eyes for a moment. "Never was. I realize that now."  
  
Saint John had obviously been following the same line in trying to get through. He took a step to the right, forcing String to turn his head to look at him. "But I am here," he said indulgently. "Right in front of you. Don't you recognize your own brother, kid? I haven't changed that much in fifteen years, have I?"  
  
"Barely at all," Mike responded, moving to the left and only halting at the menacing growl from their captor. "You know, Saint John ..." He emphasized the name. "... your own brother acts like he wants to hurt you."  
  
"String would never hurt me," the elder Hawke stated, continuing to stare hard into his brother's face, striving to make eye contact. "Would you, String?"  
  
Mike, as experienced in hand-to-hand combat as either the other two ex- soldiers, moved further to the left until he and Saint John were flanking the injured man on both sides, leaving Jo in the middle to divide his attention three ways. Not a soldier but with a woman's perception, Jo read their intentions and rocked her weight from one foot to the other, drawing his notice to herself. "I'm insulted you don't know me, String," she said with a nervous laugh. "Your own cousin? I used to visit you every year when we were kids. Remember when Saint John was a senior and figured he was too old to hang around with us? You and I spent that whole summer together at Uncle Dom's."  
  
"Dom." The name was a strangled sob, an even deeper spasm of grief mingled with outright hatred in String's eyes. Wrong thing to bring up, Jo, Mike thought with a twinge of alarm. They obviously convinced him this Saint John is an impostor. I'm not sure what else they did to him but dollars to donuts it had something to do with Santini.  
  
He had no time to pursue the notion further, however, for at that moment Saint John uttered a loud "Whoop!" and dropped to the ground. As String automatically retargeted the crouching man, Mike used the opportunity to launch his own attack. He sprang across the scant yards that separated them, shifting his balance and letting fly with a jumping side kick that caught his target square in the stomach. String fell back with a bitten off cry of pain, the gun clattering to the stony floor. Mike, too knowledgeable to trust one blow to do the job, didn't hesitate; he followed up with a solid left to the already bruised jaw, bouncing the other off the rough wall and to the ground.  
  
Saint John had started forward himself upon Mike's initial charge, intending to join the fray, but it had not been necessary. Now he wavered, protective instincts kicking into play at the sight of the apparently helpless man who was his brother. "String?" he quavered, bending over the huddled form. "Are you--?"  
  
But the fight was not yet over. Stringfellow's sneakered foot shot out in a devastating kick, connecting with Saint John's midsection and doubling him over, then that pulverizing right again landed on the elder Hawke's chin with enough force to hurl him back into Mike, and send Jo scrambling out of the way. While the three were extricating themselves from the tangle in which they found themselves, the younger Hawke scrambled on hands and knees, scooping up the fallen gun before anyone could prevent him. He aimed from a kneeling position, one arm wrapped around his ribs, his breath coming in short pants.  
  
"Stop!" he wheezed, bringing the trio to a halt. The young man was hunched with pain, but there was no misreading the professional way he handled the gun. He would kill them if pushed too far.  
  
"Well, this is another fine mess you got me into, Stanley," Rivers quipped, shooting Saint John a mock reproachful look. "Next time you want to play big brother, could you do it after we're sure the guy is disarmed?"  
  
"I second that," Jo snapped, brushing shoulder length blonde hair out of her face.  
  
Saint John rubbed a second livid red spot on his chin, the sheepish expression looking out of context on so large framed a man. "Sorry," he mumbled without opening his mouth. "He was hurt and...."  
  
"And we're about to be." Mike nevertheless donned a smile to address Stringfellow, who had forced himself back to his feet and was now watching them irresolutely. Almost like he's starting to recognize us, Mike thought with a glimmer of hope. Maybe the brainwashing and drugs don't stand up long after being slapped in the chops with reality. "You better watch that gun," he essayed, brushing sandy soil off his dark trousers. "It's got a hair trigger, and your hands don't look any too steady. You don't want to accidentally shoot your own brother, do you?"  
  
"Or cousin!" Jo put in nervously.  
  
"But especially your brother!" the older Hawke emphasized with a brief, mischievous twinkle in Santini's direction.  
  
Rivers knew they were on to something when the dull blue eyes turned full on Saint John for the first time. "They told me you were an impostor," their captor explained in a low, hesitant voice. "Like before."  
  
"What happened before?" Saint John asked calmly, his concern so apparent that Mike wondered how Stringfellow Hawke could not see it. "How did they hurt you before?"  
  
"Th-they made me think that he was y-- ... my brother." Mike noticed the slip and could tell Saint John had as well. String had almost acknowledged this man as the real thing.  
  
"Jason told us about that," Jo interjected, earning a puzzled look from Saint John; they hadn't had a chance to fill him in about Zarkov. "But this isn't an impostor. I'm not an impostor. We're your family, String."  
  
Mike thought they had him when the gun trembled again; then the young man shook his head wearily and with some degree of desperation. "I can't risk it. If I'm wrong ... if I let you take Airwolf I'll never get Saint John back. Never."  
  
"The Company!" Mike exclaimed, seizing on any compromise he could make to prevent the other pilot from turning Airwolf over to the enemy. "Contact Locke at Knightsbridge. He can set up a safe haven for the both of you!"  
  
The look he received for the suggestion was derisive in the extreme. "You know I can't trust them. I can't even trust Michael where the Lady is concerned." He circled slowly until he had a clear view of the waiting gunship. He risked a single glance at the scattered parts and equipment littering the area, experienced eyes picking out the disassembled ADF pod at once. "What did you do to her?" he demanded angrily, knuckles tightening around the weapon.  
  
Saint John took a step to the side, blocking the way, and spread both hands appealingly. "Don't do it. If Horn gets his hands on Airwolf, a lot of people will die. Besides ..." His face tightened, seeming to age ten years, gray eyes regarding the swaying man sadly. "... if you go now, I'm going to lose you, little brother, and I'm not willing to risk that. Not again. I am the real Saint John Hawke. You have to believe that."  
  
"Why should I?" the younger Hawke asked, and there was enough indecision in those words to make them all stop.  
  
"Because I outrank you?" Major Saint John Hawke tried, the humor sounding flat to them all.  
  
They stared at each other helplessly for a long time, Jo glancing impotently from one man to the next. Mike's brow wrinkled for a moment, then his face cleared. He puckered his lips, whistling the theme from The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show, and waiting patiently until all eyes were on him. "This really is easy enough," he began cheerfully, addressing Stringfellow Hawke and hoping mightily that he would think so, too. "You fellows grew up together -- that means you must know oodles of juicy tidbits that aren't in anybody's files. Right?" He waited for an acknowledgement that never came and plunged on again, "Why don't you ask Saint John something that no one but you two know. If he answers right, you'll have proof positive that he's the genuine article." Mike grinned, adding irresistibly, "Then you won't have to shoot any of us, right?"  
  
"Right!" Saint John agreed heartily before his brother had a chance to object. "Think of something, String -- something only I would know." He crossed his arms across his chest, waiting expectantly, his whole attitude giving the other man no choice but to comply.  
  
Doubt touched his brother's fine boned features, indecision keeping him rooted in place. He peeked hungrily at Airwolf, the desire to take the helicopter and flee so strong it was readable to everyone there. Then he rubbed at the light shading on his cheek that was the result of two days without shaving, and raised his head defiantly. "Who was Josh?" he challenged, attitude stating plainly that he didn't anticipate an answer.  
  
Josh? Mike thought hard but couldn't place the reference from any of his, Saint John's and Jo's chats, nor any report he had ever read. He glanced at Jo, but the woman shrugged, as mystified as he was.  
  
Saint John, however, looked positively smug. His thin lips twitched in a smile, wide-planed face losing some of the lines that had etched it since his brother's disappearance. "Joshua Hawke was our older brother. He died when he was five and I was four -- six months before you were born. Dad and Dom buried him in a grove about a mile from the cabin."  
  
If it was possible, Stringfellow Hawke's already ashen skin grew even paler. He blinked, the gun dipping several inches. "No one alive knows about Josh. Dom never mentioned him to anyone -- I know he didn't. Mom and Dad didn't talk about him, either; the only time ... the only t-time I ever asked, Mom got so upset that I never did it again." He lifted his other hand, palm up. "I only know about Josh because y-you told me ... a long time ago."  
  
Saint John laughed deep in his throat. "Jo's dad, Tony Santini was the only one I ever met who remembered him. He was talking about a time I went fishing with my big brother. He meant Josh."  
  
"I thought he had you two mixed up," Jo said thoughtfully from the side. "I assumed it was you who went along, String."  
  
Saint John shook his head. "String wasn't even born yet. It was Josh who went fishing with me at the cabin; it was the year he died." His smile faded. "He and I did everything together. He was my best friend ... until you came along, String."  
  
That did it. The gun forgotten at his side, Stringfellow stared at his brother, looking dazed and sick and hopeful all at once. Mike took a cautious step forward, plucking the gun from the other pilot's nerveless fingers. He deftly uncocked the hammer and flicked the safety on with his thumb. "Guess big brothers come in handy sometimes," he quipped, stowing the weapon in the waistband of his pants. "I should know -- I'm one myself and I'm pretty handy if I do say so." 


	23. Chapter 23

If String heard, he made no sign. His bleary gaze was riveted on his brother's concerned one. "Saint John?" he croaked doubtfully. "Is it really you?" The older man stepped forward, arms outstretched, stopping when a flash of alarm crossed the younger Hawke's face. He retreated as though to bolt, spinning and coming face to face with a determined Mike Rivers.  
  
The guy is not getting past me this time, Rivers vowed grimly, in no mood to make further concessions. No way he's leaving just so I can go through this again in a couple hours! He needn't have worried. Whatever the younger Hawke had been running on, be it drugs, adrenalin or sheer grit, finally drained away; he managed one step before his legs folded under him, dropping him where he stood. Mike, the closest, caught him automatically in one arm, spreading his legs slightly to accept the weight without falling himself. "You couldn't've done this ten minutes ago and saved me a couple of gray hairs?" he asked the limp figure rhetorically, securing his hold.  
  
There was, predictably, no answer, but Saint John was there in an instant, sliding his hands under Mike's and helping to lower the inert body to the ground. Rather than moving aside, Mike retained his hold on the unconscious man; he'd sensed from that last unsettled look that he as non- family would be considered a lesser threat than either Saint John or Jo at the moment, and thus the more likely to be able to coax the information they needed. That's a switch, he chuckled to himself, appreciating the irony. Saint John seemed to realize this also and made no protest when Mike supported his brother against a bent knee, holding him in place with an arm around his shoulders. "Hey!" he hailed, slapping one bruised cheek. "Hawke Junior! You in there, pal?"  
  
Brown lashes fluttered and rose, revealing confused blue eyes. "I--" he began, then stopped, as though unsure of what to say.  
  
Rivers redonned his friendly smile, painting it on over the scowl that threatened to break through. Maybe he and Stringfellow Hawke weren't friends, but Mike's innate sense of justice demanded that anyone who abused one of his comrades should answer for it. A glance at Saint John's grim face revealed a barely suppressed fury that acted as perfect compliment to this sentiment.  
  
"String?" Saint John leaned closer, taking one of the injured man's hands and cradling it in his own, careful to not disturb the unraveled bandages. "Are you back with us, boy?"  
  
"You're going to be fine," Jo said, kneeling behind the bronze haired pilot and to the side where she could see. "You're safe now."  
  
The younger Hawke glanced warily from Jo back to Saint John, then shut his eyes. Mike thought he'd passed out again until Saint John touched the bruised face, and whispered, "What did they do to you, kid?"  
  
The matted hair rustled against Mike's black shirt, his voice a bare murmur. "They took everything that was left." His breath caught in his throat in what might have been a sob had he had strength enough for it. "They even took you."  
  
Saint John traced upwards to lay his hand on the nape of his brother's neck, squeezing gently for attention. "They didn't take me, String. I'm right here."  
  
Mike could feel the other pilot begin to tremble, although he did chance opening his eyes. "They did," he whispered back, beaten. "This is all another lie, isn't it? Like before. Like Dom."  
  
"Dom?" Saint John mouthed curiously to the other two. Jo's hand flew to her mouth, and even Mike found it temporarily hard to answer. Saint John turned back to his brother, baffled at their reactions but soothing. "I don't know what happened before, but I am your brother." He slid his fingers under String's chin, tilting it up, forcing the cloudy blue eyes to meet his own gray ones, and they could all see an exhaustion there so agonizing it sliced to the very soul. "I'm here now, String. Nothing is going to hurt you again. I promise."  
  
Mike had once read a deep trust between the brothers, so strong he'd envied it. Now there was wariness, the walls of suspicion encasing the younger man, the older watchful and apprehensive. "What do you remember?" Jo asked, interrupting the seconds-long silence that dropped as a pall over the group.  
  
"John Bradford Horn," Mike offered, patting the brown-haired man's shoulder with rough comfort. "Do you know that name?"  
  
That snapped Stringfellow Hawke's attention to him, hatred clearing away some of the fog. "Horn. And that woman." He squinted in recognition of the man holding him, then made to struggle free, weakness and pain defeating all but a token attempt. Rivers understood and shifted until Hawke was more or less sitting, Saint John's large hands automatically closing around his upper arms to pull him closer. Breath catching in a hiss, String fell sideways against the bronze haired pilot and away from Mike, tolerating only his brother's touch. Mike got to his feet, stifling a smile; he knew that independent nature all too well.  
  
Saint John tangled his fingers in his brother's hair, directing the question to the room at large. "What woman? Who's Horn?"  
  
String was silent, still dazed and barely conscious. Jo merely bit her lip, leaving it for Mike to repeat the history Jason and Caitlin had given them back at the hangar. When he was through, Saint John's lips were white with anger, his steel colored eyes glittering with the same kind of hatred his brother's bore. He shifted his gaze from Mike to Stringfellow, who was staring at the ground. "What else did they do to you, little brother?" he asked, his kind voice at odds with the thundercloud sitting on his brow.  
  
"Killed Dom." Stringfellow looked up at him, then away. "I saw them kill Dom, but it wasn't really him. I think." He licked cracked lips, raspy voice barely audible. "I can't tell anymore. I can't even tell if I'm sane anymore."  
  
Saint John stiffened; he gently tugged his brother's head up until they were again facing each other. "Don't say that, String -- don't even think that. The only thing wrong with you is what has to be a nasty concussion ..." He traced the long bruise down from the younger man's temple. "... and probably not having eaten or slept for a couple of days. I'm not surprised you're having a little trouble concentrating."  
  
"He's right." Jo leaned over Saint John's shoulder, patting String's hand affectionately. "A little sleep and you'll be good as new."  
  
"I'm a'right," the younger man mumbled, his words beginning to slur as awareness slipped away. "Wha'ever they gave me ... wearing off. Dom...."  
  
Mike caught his best friend's puzzled look and decided it was time to tell him the rest of it -- Saint John had a right. "There is something else you should know," he began hesitantly, acutely aware of three pairs of eyes on him. "And it's not going to make things any simpler for you."  
  
"Maybe not simpler, but happier," Santini corrected, pretty face brightening. "Uncle Dom's alive, Saint John! He's really alive!"  
  
Delight further smoothed Saint John's rugged features, erasing the extra years and making him look very young. "Dom! Alive? I can't believe it!"  
  
"May be alive," Mike felt compelled to add, feeling like a traitor for the caution. "Our source isn't any too reliable."  
  
"Well, I believe he is." Jo threw her arms around Saint John's neck, then bent to kiss Stringfellow's forehead. "We're all going to be together again like before! I just know it!"  
  
Beaming happily, Saint John looked down into his brother's face, the smile fading at the continued heartache he saw there. "What is it, String?" he asked gently. "If Dom's alive...?"  
  
The younger Hawke shook his head sadly. "It's not really Dom. It's another impostor." He dropped his eyes, sickened and afraid, the doubt that this was even Saint John still living there. "Another lie."  
  
Like you, Mike added silently, pity ambushing him without warning. No human being deserved to be so totally stripped as this man was, particularly not the proud, dynamic fellow warrior Mike knew Stringfellow Hawke to be. Of their own accord his hands curled into fists, the muscles in his arms growing taut as bands. This Horn jerk was going to pay big time for this. Instead of giving the thought vocalization, he squatted, resting his hand on one slumped shoulder above Saint John's bracing arm. "Not necessarily a lie, buddy-boy, not according to our contact. He said Santini was Horn's ace-in-the-hole against you. His secret weapon."  
  
That earned a narrow-eyed glance. "Michael said--"  
  
Rivers nipped that one in the bud. He might be wrong -- Santini might be dead these past three months, for all he knew. But lifting the misery in the other man even for awhile might be worth the risk. Besides, he had a feeling.... "Even Archangels aren't infallible, kiddo," he said with some display of confidence he almost felt. "And right now I'm willing to bet my boss against your boss, old man Santini just might be alive and kicking yet."  
  
Elation warred with tenderness in Saint John's strong face, and Mike could see how badly he wanted this to be true. "It's possible, String," he said hopefully, fingers teasing his brother's hair at the nape. "Dom could really still be alive."  
  
If they were expecting joy at the announcement, they were doomed to disappointment. Stringfellow Hawke's roller-coaster emotions tipped again, this time from grief to horror. He snagged the front of Saint John's tan coverall, using the grip to pull the older man closer and leaving a red stain where he touched. "If that's true ... I left him back there! I left him to die like I left you!"  
  
"You didn't." That was Mike, still kneeling by the brothers. He'd seen this type of guilt before -- sensed in their few brief encounters how much this man carried over the space of a relatively short life -- and refused to let it go on any longer than necessary. Guilt could destroy as surely as any bullet. "Place the blame where it belongs -- on John Bradford Horn. He's the bad guy in our private melodrama."  
  
String touched his bruised temple with shaking fingers, turning his face against Saint John's chest. "D'know any more. I can't remember any more. But we got 'ta go back for Dom. And Michael."  
  
Face crumpling, Saint John hugged him tightly, leaning his forehead against his brother's hair and closing his eyes. "We will, kid. I swear it."  
  
Moved himself, Mike sat back on his heels and watched the Hawkes, feeling a part of the scene and divorced from it at once. It was doubtful either brother even remembered he was there; yet, who could witness so much raw pain and not be involved in his heart? Saint John seemed torn between a sort of dazed gladness brought by the news of Santini's revised fate, and a familial anguish at his brother's pain. And it was obvious Stringfellow had long ago reached the limits of human endurance, both physically and emotionally. One blow on top of another with no time to recover in between had wrought their damage; add the torture, drugs and suffering on top of that.... Mike caught a glimpse of the white face pressed against Saint John's coverall, and sighed. Time to get this guy to a hospital.  
  
That is, if they could ever manage to pry him out of Saint John's arms, which might be a task all in itself. The strength of his hug must have been painful to a man with massive bruising if not actual broken bones or internal injuries, but Stringfellow made no protest and showed as little desire to pull away as Saint John did to release him. Maybe this is just what they both need, Mike thought with satisfaction, not resenting the exclusivity any longer. Family. Great institution.  
  
During this interval Jo had taken the opportunity to rummage in the big locker in the far corner of the cave. She now returned with a sleeping bag and blanket in one arm, and in the other a tin box bearing the renowned red cross. "He needs to get some rest," she said softly, depositing both bag and blanket on the floor. "He's practically out already."  
  
The younger Hawke shook his head as best he could without lifting it. "Can't. Have to go back for Dom. I left him there."  
  
"Tell you what, pal." Mike patted Saint John on the back, waiting until he had loosened his grip enough for him to see String's face before saying, "We've got some repairs to make on Airwolf before we can go anywhere. We'll be going in, in...?"  
  
"An hour, maybe a little more," Saint John supplied with a nod at the semi- assembled ADF pod.  
  
"Right." Rivers smiled easily. "You pull a little sack time so you'll be fresh, and we'll call you when we have the chopper combat ready." He eyed the other doubtfully, deciding a flight as far as the nearest medical facility wouldn't cause any more damage than he'd already suffered. "We can drop you off at a hospital on the way to the rendezvous with Locke, where you can get some real treatment. You'll be okay in--"  
  
Blue eyes flared. "You're not going to drop me off anywhere. I have to go back for Dom and Michael." When Rivers just regarded him measuringly, he shifted his gaze to a point over Mike's shoulder, his jaw tight. "It isn't like before any more. I see the real Saint John ..." He glanced at his brother's face, a tiny smile teasing his fine lips. "... I do recognize you now -- all of you. Jo, and you're Mike Rivers...."  
  
"Uno and the same-o," Mike grinned, striking a pose. Saint John chuckled but String regarded him blankly. Obviously, brainwashing can't improve a sense of humor you don't have in the first place, Mike reflected with a mental shrug. An' they talk about yer tough audiences.  
  
"I need to go back," Stringfellow went on, unheeding, his phrases clipped. "Need t'find Dom and Michael. Horn's men ... they're expecting me."  
  
Jo nudged the blankets nearer the sleeping bag with her foot, and opened the tin box. "Of course, they are," she said soothingly, pulling out gauze and disinfectant. "But they don't know you've told us what's going on, so they won't be expecting another team in Airwolf. That'll give us an edge to start with. Where were you supposed to meet them? Was it Larchmont Field?"  
  
Stringfellow stared at her, eyes haunted. He swallowed and it took two tries for him to choke out, "The main hangar. It's deserted now -- out of business. They said ... they said the Lady would be safe there, but I shouldn't tell...."  
  
Jo sniffed, her hand shaking with suppressed emotion. "Who cares what they said. Jason's going to have Zebra Squad hit that place the same time we go in after Uncle Dom." Her voice caught on the name, tears sparkling in her large eyes. "R-right now, you rest and let us t-take care of you."  
  
Seeing her distress, Mike took the bottle of disinfectant. "Why don't you call Jason and confirm Larchmont Field as the secondary target, Jo," he offered. "I'll handle the first aid." The protest was on her lips, but he stopped it by raising a hand. "Air Force Majors take required courses in field medicine."  
  
"So do Army Majors." Saint John Hawke smiled bleakly. "Go ahead, Jo. Make the call."  
  
She hesitated, then passed the gauze gratefully across and got to her feet. "I'll be right back." A moment later they could hear her on the transceiver, Jason's controlled baritone audible as background.  
  
Stringfellow Hawke lay quietly in his brother's arms while Mike unwrapped the dirty bandages on his hands. Saint John sucked in a whistling breath when the raw, obviously infected burns were revealed. "Looks like they used a hot poker on him," he growled, protectively tightening his hold.  
  
Mike pursed his lips. Those wounds needed to be cleaned, but he didn't relish the thought of pouring an alcohol solution over raw flesh. He hesitated, then dug in the first aid kit again, this time pulling out a small vial and paper-wrapped hypodermic. "Morphine," he explained when Saint John raised an inquiring brow. "I think we're going to need it."  
  
That elicited a reaction from the barely conscious Stringfellow Hawke. Blue eyes flicked open, more cognizance there than previously. "No," he stated in a surprisingly firm voice. "I have to have a clear head when we go in for Dom."  
  
"Pal, believe me, you're not even going to want a clear head over the next few minutes." Besides which, if you're unconscious, we can dump you at the nearest hospital and not have to worry about watching you every minute when we begin our run. Encountering a stubborn, shrewd look, Mike relented but only slightly. "Tell you what -- only a small dose to douse the pain while I take care of your hands. It'll wear off long before we hit Horn's place ... although you're going to wish it hadn't."  
  
Stringfellow looked skeptical until Saint John patted his shoulder. "Trust him, String," he advised, rolling up his brother's sleeve. "Mike's word is good."  
  
The younger Hawke gave a nod, shifting his gaze back to the first aid kit. "D'we still have the Benzedrine in there?"  
  
"Benzedrine?" That was Jo, returning from her radio call in time to hear the last sentence. "What are you planning to do with uppers? You're in no condition...."  
  
"A lot of soldiers use them to stay alert during a mission," Mike explained absently, injecting an only slightly moderated amount of morphine derivative into the younger Hawke's arm. "Yeah, pal, we've got some, but there's no way you're getting any on top of a concussion. You either go in straight or not at all."  
  
"But the morphine...." the injured man began to protest. The drug hit his bloodstream immediately, the sudden release from pain so staggering that String sagged back against his brother with a whimpering sigh. "Morphine," he slurred dreamily a moment later. "Keep me fr'm goin' in."  
  
"Will it?" Mike queried innocently as though he hadn't thought of that himself. He used the relatively pain free window this gave them to disinfect and rebandage the burned hands, feeling the fever rising in the flushing skin and knowing those infections were going to require heavy antibiotics to combat. He next lifted the dirty white sweater, exchanging a troubled look with Saint John at the mottling decorating the other man's chest and stomach. "I've seen less color in a Crayola box," he muttered. He pressed lightly on a rib, feeling a give beneath his fingers, then shook his head and tugged the sweater back in place. "Those could be surface bruises, or he could be bleeding inside. Nothing we can do except keep him quiet and get him to a doctor ASAP."  
  
"And take out the guys who did this," the elder Hawke returned grimly, touching his brother's hair.  
  
Stringfellow Hawke suffered the two other men to lift him onto the sleeping bag Jo spread out, and cover him with a blanket. His eyes remained shut even as he clumsily snagged Saint John's wrist. "Promise you won't leave me behind," he begged in a slurred voice. "Promise, Saint John."  
  
The elder pilot hesitated, then patted his shoulder. "I promise. Go to sleep, String." He maintained contact for another minute, starting when Mike touched his shoulder.  
  
"Your baby brother needs--" Rivers began, the words snapping off when String's eyes opened again.  
  
"What did you call me?" he asked groggily.  
  
Mike felt the blush work its way up his neck. "Um, nothing. Go to sleep." He ignored Saint John's and Jo's dual smirks, waiting prudently until the brown lashes drifted shut and the younger Hawke's breathing had evened out, before suggesting gently, "Your brother needs a hospital, Saint John. He's hurting pretty badly."  
  
Jo, kneeling on the unconscious man's far side, smiled fondly. "Even all beat up like that, he looks like the boy I grew up with again. Hard to believe it's even the same person who scared me a few minutes ago."  
  
Saint John grunted and pulled the cover up over String's chest. "I've never broken a promise to my brother," he told Rivers firmly. "When we go in for Dom, he's going too."  
  
"Then we go as a team," Mike corrected firmly, staring hard into the gray eyes close to his own. It was going to be hard enough invading Horn's fortress, worse not being able to rely on the entire team ... not that it would do to mention that last to Saint John. He shrugged, the imp rising again. "After all this trouble, I want to meet this Santini for myself. If he's got the three of you on his side, he must be some kind of old bird."  
  
"You could say that," Saint John returned, smiling back. "Come on, let's get to work on Airwolf. We've still got a rescue to pull off."  
  
*** 


	24. Chapter 24

Stark panic drove her onward when she would have long ago fallen fainting to the ground. Bare feet slapped some hard surface in irregular pulses, long legs more than making up for her petite stature. More afraid to look than not, she nevertheless risked a glance over her shoulder at the object of her terror, but could make out only an indistinct shadow in the distance. Closer -- it was gaining on her. If it should overtake her....  
  
She flew through the night, her breath a rasp in the back of her throat. She saw it too late -- the shade that detached itself from the murk to bar her way. She was too close to stop, and she shrieked when strong arms closed around her shoulders, preventing her from moving on.  
  
"Let me go! It is com--" A single shaft of light appeared from above, illuminating the shade's features, and blessed relief filled the woman at the sight. "Oh, Daddy!" she sobbed, throwing both arms around her father's chest and burying her face in the jacket of his tuxedo. "Oh, Daddy, you've got to help me! It's coming after me!"  
  
"What is, Angelica?" Horn's voice was rich and smooth, like black velvet and silk. She loved to listen to him -- had always associated those deep timbres with comfort and security. She held on tighter.  
  
"I don't know. I don't know what it is, but I know it's evil!"  
  
Long fingers stroked her hair gently, giving her courage. "Maybe it's not evil, my darling daughter," Horn murmured reassuringly. "Maybe ..." The fingers stopped, tangling painfully, and yanking her head up. "... you are!"  
  
"But, Daddy.... "NO!" Gone was the strong, handsome features she knew so well. Instead, bending close to her cheek was the decomposed features of a long dead corpse. Fetid breath blew into her nose and mouth, making her gag, and against her skin was the smooth nylon of a flight suit -- silver, she knew, with an odd patch on the shoulder.  
  
"Let go! Let go!" She pushed with all her might, freeing herself from that abomination and feeling bony fingers snatch at her as she retreated. Turning, she plunged back into the darkness, sensing without sight the proximity of the pursuer. But what was it? What was this nameless, hell- spawned terror that pursued so relentlessly, carrying with it the promise of damnation itself?  
  
She risked another glance behind, but long blonde hair blinded her this time, her feet tangling in the flowing negligee she wore. She went down hard although surprisingly there was no pain. She needed to get up, to run, to escape. But she couldn't, her legs were water, her head swimming. Terrified, she threw up one hand supplicatingly toward the pursuer, finally facing the foe.  
  
"String!" she wailed to the now arrived figure. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry!" But the hated enemy, the demon who materialized out of the gloom was not Stringfellow Hawke.  
  
It was herself.  
  
Angelica Arista Maria Van Muller Horn jerked bolt upright, the sheets falling unheeded around her waist. She ran a hand across her forehead, wiping back the sweat plastered hair, and sucking in great gulps of air. Where was she? She looked around frantically, recognizing the dimly lit suite she called her own. Pink ruffled pillows bracketed her body, the rich satin comforter on the floor by the king sized four-poster bed. She glanced from one side to the other looking for any discrepancy to show she was no longer in the pleasant little bedroom her father had outfitted for her months before, but could find nothing out of order. The expensive pastels still hung on the walls, the flowers in the vase on the bureau were fresh. Maybe the discrepancy isn't with the room, she decided. Maybe it's with me.  
  
Trembling badly, she struggled free of the linens and made her way to the ornate full-length mirror that sat in the near corner, turning up the lamp as she passed. She stopped there, staring at her reflection as if she'd never seen it before. And perhaps in many ways, she had not.  
  
Platinum hair fell across slender shoulders in a cloud, haloing delicate features and pale skin. Like an angel, she remembered her father's words from so long ago. Angel -- Angelica. Her gaze traveled downward, skimming her nude body without appreciation. She'd lost too much weight over the past year, her ripe figure passing from willowy to gaunt, matching the new hollows in her cheeks and under her eyes. She touched her abdomen gingerly, feeling the ribs prominent under the once full breasts, the hip bones visible at her sides.  
  
"I look like a skeleton too," she said aloud, the sadness in her voice a pale match to that within her heart. She looked full into the turquoise eyes in the mirror, some part of her recognizing that she was still, as People magazine had once named her, one of the most beautiful women on the planet. No man could gaze upon those exquisite features and help but be enraptured by their perfection -- Aphrodite, Athena, Helen of Troy. She had been compared to them all and rightly so. But there were subtle lines now forming on her forehead, more framing the turquoise eyes. Her mouth was no longer full and generous, but was rather pinched with a sobriety no lip paint could conceal.  
  
"I'm only twenty-seven," she said wonderingly, her voice a far away drone in her own ears. "I look like a hundred."  
  
At one time that thought would have been terrifying -- a loss of the perfection so prized by the one man in all the world who held her heart and soul in the palm of his hand. But then had come another into her life, briefly, a single brush of two souls and no more before the betrayal. Her betrayal of him.  
  
"He did touch me, Father," she said aloud, seemingly unaware of the solo conversation. "He wasn't just a target after a while. He was a man."  
  
She closed swimming eyes, summoning a picture of Stringfellow Hawke as she remembered him from their first meeting. Fine boned -- nearly as delicately featured as was she, but with a masculine strength and unbreakable will. Fair and handsome and charmingly shy with her at first, but she had learned the arts of enchantment from the finest masters in the world, and he had stood no chance against her wiles. She felt the blood rise in her face with the first tentative press of his lips against hers, the surprising passion of her own response.  
  
It had been a singular shock when she had pulled away to find her disguised father peering at them from between the open elevator doors, and she'd resented the accelerated time table he'd imposed. To 'protect' her, she realized later, from getting too close to a target. "Perhaps you're even smarter than I gave you credit for, Daddy," she murmured through barely parted lips. "Not smart enough to leave me in Switzerland instead of bringing me here, though. But then, you always did appreciate having an audience for your little victories, didn't you?"  
  
Beyond that moment there was little that she wanted to remember -- and nothing she would ever forget. The rush of her father's troops closing in, in Texas, the look of shock and betrayal that Stringfellow Hawke leveled at her and maintained as he was dragged physically from the landing field to the room where he would be tortured, drugged and brainwashed into fealty -- for her father and for herself.  
  
False love, false loyalty, guilt and eternal regret. What else was there for her now? "I did it for you, Father." She opened her eyes, startled by the savage note in her voice. The room was no longer pink and cheery; at some point the red haze of malignity had descended, muting the light. That same red burned behind her eyes as well, growing from embers to flame as she stared at her own hated face, the abhorrence matched only by what she felt for her father. "Who do I hate worse, Father?" she asked rhetorically. "You or myself? And does it really matter?"  
  
She watched fascinated as, as though in answer, the mirror image she regarded so scornfully, began to shrink, retreating into the distance and taking with it the likeness of a beautiful, troubled woman burdened with a guilt too strong to bear. It contracted until it was no more than a pinprick on the horizon of her vision, then reversed and began once more to grow. Angelica gaped with surprise as she watched this phenomenon, for the image had done more than change size -- it was assuming a life of its own.  
  
"She knows what to do," Angelica whispered, greeting this second woman, a twin of herself. But where she felt only regret, this other held her chin high, turquoise eyes gleaming with decision. Her step was firm as she emerged from the glass, her posture unbowed with shame. Angelica opened her arms wide, embracing the lovely figure to herself, feeling her meld with flesh and bone, accepting burden and hurt, and returning new hope.  
  
She blinked, surprised that she could be both participant and watcher, divorced and yet not. "Now we both know what to do," the new, dual Angelica said, slipping on a peignoir. She hadn't known it before, but there was only one path all along. Now that she knew the way, her step was sure and confident, her heart unburdened for the first time in many long months.  
  
*** 


	25. Chapter 25

Clad in the translucent peignoir, Angelica Horn left her suite silently, padding from the living areas to the elevator, which she took directly to the sub-basement level. It was lunchtime and the passages were not crowded. The few guards she encountered offered only clandestine, appreciative looks as she passed; it would not do, after all, to be caught ogling the boss's daughter no matter what she was wearing ... or not wearing. Especially if that boss was a man like John Bradford Horn.  
  
Angelica seemed unaware of the reaction she was causing to the male sentries' hormone levels. She swept by without a glance, making her way to the steel security door at the very terminus of the corridor. "Open the door," she ordered the burly, uniformed redhead on duty, assuming a relaxed stance with her hands behind her back.  
  
The man skimmed her nearly nude figure once, then determinedly raised his eyes until he was staring at a spot on the opposite wall, well over her head. "Dr. Zarkov is working in there, Ma'am," he explained after clearing his throat. "She asked not to be disturbed."  
  
Angelica's turquoise eyes hardened, her delicate jaw sticking out obstinately. This was a woman who was used to being obeyed without question. "And I'm telling you to disturb her! Since when does one of my father's men put her orders ahead of mine?"  
  
The man's ruddy face puckered for a moment while he considered the implied threat. People who opposed Horn in any way tended to disappear ... unpleasantly. The concept that this same tenet applied to his daughter's orders was not so far-fetched. He gulped loudly and came to attention, the AK-47 he carried slung across one shoulder clanking against the metal door. "Yes, Ma'am!" he replied, turning on his heel.  
  
The soundproofed door slid open on oiled tracks, the hush of the corridor being rent instantly by an ululating scream from within -- the sound of a man in agony. Angelica tipped her head consideringly, then slipped inside, keying the door closed behind her. She padded closer as the scream wavered and then died away leaving only the barely audible murmuring of a woman to break the eerie stillness.  
  
It was not a large chamber John Horn's daughter entered, but the dimness suggested more space than there was. Along one wall was inset a bank of equipment identifiable as computer monitors, a projector and a very good sound system, the speakers being secreted at various points throughout the room. The opposing mirrored wall was being used as a screen for the projector; portrayed on it was a handsome, blond man with chiseled features and a benign expression foreign to his natural mien. He stood, hands spread as though in benediction.  
  
The only furniture in the room was an odd looking hospital gurney tilted partially erect in its center. On this make-shift rack Michael Coldsmith- Briggs III semi-reclined, wrists and ankles secured with straps to hold him in place. His white jacket, vest and shoes were gone although he still wore the shirt, trousers and socks he'd arrived with, now sweat stained and blood spotted. He still had his glasses; the one blue eye visible behind the thick lens was open, fixed on the image of Horn, wide with pain and fear.  
  
"... but it will not hurt forever." Zarkov's reassuring tones floated softly, as gentle as a nursing mother's. She leaned over him, white lab coat draping his chest; on her far side the indispensable Lydia was filling a hypodermic from a tiny vial.  
  
"Watch the face closely," Zarkov crooned, stroking Michael's face with long fingers. "It is the face of your benefactor -- you owe him your very existence and every loyalty."  
  
"No," Archangel moaned, turning his head as far as he could. "Enemy."  
  
Zarkov chuckled. "But soon to be your god even as he was your friend's. Stringfellow grew to love John Bradford Horn, adore him as he'd only adored his family in the past."  
  
"Y-you hurt him." The agent turned a baleful gaze toward the dark-haired woman, teeth clenched over another scream. "What did you do to him?"  
  
Anastasia Zarkov leaned close again until her lips were only inches from his ear. "The same thing I am about to do to you, Michael. Lydia?"  
  
The oriental woman had just placed the hypodermic in her outstretched hand when Angelica slapped her palm down on the master console, bringing up the lights. Immediately, the image of her father dimmed, the almost subliminal recording of his voice shutting down altogether. Both Lydia and Zarkov whirled in place to glower at the beautiful intruder.  
  
"What are you doing?" Zarkov barked, all traces of the mellifluous tones she'd used with Michael gone. "His barriers are down and we are prepared for the first injection! This is a very critical stage!"  
  
Angelica Horn regarded the Russian psychologist as though she were some new species of insect. "Set him free," she commanded evenly, indicating Michael with a jerk of her head. "Now, so that this nightmare can be over."  
  
To the rear Michael could only blink groggily at the slender form in the translucent peignoir, Lydia impassively staring from the side. Zarkov regarded the younger woman measuringly for a moment, brown eyes widening with comprehension. She forced a smile and stepped forward, both hands outstretched.  
  
"Angelica, darling," she began in those honeyed tones she'd used on Archangel. "We must--" The words choked off when Angelica produced a serviceable little .32 caliber pistol she'd been concealing behind her back.  
  
"I said," the blonde repeated calmly, leveling the gun, "set him free." At a gesture from Zarkov, Lydia began to hurriedly unbuckle the bonds holding Michael in place, her almond eyes narrowed.  
  
"You don't know what you're doing," Zarkov began again, visibly unnerved by the peculiar look in the other woman's turquoise eyes. "Your father will be displeased with you."  
  
"Will he?" This dire possibility seemed not to distress the younger woman at all. She watched interestedly while the oriental assistant finished untying a groggy Briggs' ankles. "You're Archangel, right? String's friend?"  
  
He managed to raise his head with difficulty, as though it weighed a thousand pounds, his single blue eye regarding her distrustfully. The serene expression told the agent its own story, however, and he nodded, then had to drop his head back against the rest for a moment, visibly fighting for consciousness. "Yeah," he croaked, gulping in a breath. "I'm String's friend. Is he ... all right? Do you know where he is?"  
  
Her wide eyes darkened, her lower lip trembling. "No. He yelled at Mr. Santini then left. He went after the helicopter. Everyone is always after that stupid helicopter."  
  
Some of the dazed look faded from Briggs' face at the name of his second friend, long thought dead. He struggled to stand, supporting himself with a shaky grip on the customized gurney. Once vertical, he tested his left leg gingerly; it held him -- barely. "So that really is Dominic Santini your father is holding prisoner?" he asked with some degree of pleasure. "He didn't die in that tube?"  
  
Angelica shook her head, the silk nightclothes rustling with each movement. "Daddy only killed him as a joke to make String hurt. He's in that cell down the hall. Daddy said he might be able to use him later if Anastasia messed up."  
  
"It is you who 'messed up,' the Russian gritted, drawing herself up to her full height. "John shall certainly hear of this."  
  
Michael rubbed his wrists, gaze skimming the room. "I doubt Miss Horn cares at this point, Doctor."  
  
"Oh, but she shall." Her words were so baleful that both Michael and Angelica glanced at her, but it was, surprisingly, the silent Lydia who made the next move. Ignored during the dialogue, she'd managed to edge her way around the upright cot in the room's center until she was standing at catercorners with Angelica Horn. At this single moment of distraction, she made her move, leaping across the intervening space with all the grace of a jungle cat. Fast as she was, however, Angelica was faster; she retargeted with a deft swivel, her finger tightening on the trigger. The shot was loud in the narrow chamber, the bullet taking Lydia high on the breast. The lithe form dropped to the polished floor in a heap even as the wide almond eyes began to glaze.  
  
Zarkov, stunned momentarily by her assistant's death, opened her mouth to scream, but Michael was already in motion. He covered the distance to her side in a fraction, his right fist beginning a long, upward arc. It terminated at the exact center of her face, blood spewing from her broken nose and mouth. She joined Lydia on the floor, unconscious before she hit.  
  
"For Stringfellow Hawke," Michael growled, then touched his own swollen nose and added wryly, "and me." The awareness that the proceedings were being recorded and possibly observed prevented any further hesitation. He snagged Angelica by the wrist and tugged her to a point where she would be visible from the door, then stationed himself against the near wall and gestured for her to key it open. She obeyed, leaving it half ajar, then stood quietly and waited for the guard's response. It was not long in coming.  
  
"Miss Horn?" The man's gruff tones were tentative, respectful of her status. "Are you all right, Miss?" Angelica did not move, and the man stepped inside, assault rifle held at ready. "I sa--" That was as far as he got before the extended knuckle of Michael's middle finger slammed into the soft hollow of his throat. A second blow was unnecessary -- the dying man fell without uttering a sound.  
  
"I don't know why you're doing this," Briggs grunted, bending painfully to scoop up the fallen assault rifle, "but I'm grateful." He glanced up, gulping audibly at the tranquility in those turquoise eyes -- not the Ophelia-like vacuousness of a divorcing from reality but rather the utter peace of one who is resigned to it. "Do you know where Santini is?" he asked, reeling weakly back against the half-opened door, shock and exhaustion taking its toll.  
  
She nodded and swept regally past him, oblivious to his physical condition. "I'll take you to him, then the two of you can go back to String." She paused mid-step to stare at him pensively. "I think String would be pleased if you escaped. He won't ever forgive me, but he might be pleased."  
  
"I like to think he would," Michael acknowledged wryly, trailing her at a clumsy limp.  
  
Bare and sock-clad feet slapping softly on the uncarpeted floor, she led him to a staircase several yards away, then up one level to a second corridor much like the first. Angelica paused, allowing Michael to scan the area, which he did by hitching his one eye around the corner cautiously, immediately retreating to the security of the stair like a turtle back into a shell.  
  
"Guard on patrol," he whispered in her ear, fingers wrapped tightly around the AK-47 he'd liberated. "I'll have to take him out before he can raise an alarm. Maybe a diversion?" He inspected her scantily clad figure consideringly, from the long blonde hair to translucent nightclothes. "Think you can lure him in this direction?"  
  
She didn't answer, simply pressed the small gun against her thigh and slipped past him into the hallway, her walk the sure step of a woman who knows she is beautiful and has no need to doubt her assets. "Tyrone," she called softly, summoning the broad-shouldered black man who was on the reverse circuit of his tour.  
  
The black man spun alertly, rifle gripped in both hands. He relaxed upon seeing the daughter of his employer, tensing again this time with appreciation upon seeing the way she was dressed. Tyrone cleared his throat. "Miss Horn," he said with less respect than had her previous victim. "Can I help you?"  
  
Angelica smiled. "Yes. Come here ... just for a moment. I need help."  
  
The man slung the rifle over his shoulder and approached, his heavy boots drowning out her lighter step. When he was within feet of her, Angelica retreated into the stairwell beyond his view. "Miss Horn, I can't leave--" he began.  
  
Michael waited patiently, biding his time until the man had actually seen him before making his move. The dark eyes widened in disbelief, and Michael smiled. "Surprise!" he called softly, bringing the barrel of the Kalashnikov-made rifle across like a club. Tyrone grunted at the impact, the follow-up smash to his head ensuring that he would not be giving any alarms for some time to come.  
  
The maneuver was effective but not without cost. Briggs staggered backward, only the nearby wall preventing him from taking a tumble down the stairs. He shut his eye, breathing noisily for long moments, one arm wrapped around his ribs and his face contorted. Angelica, moving only to flip a strand of blonde hair over her shoulder, watched him impassively until he was again able to straighten.  
  
"Can we go find Mr. Santini now?" she asked, unaware or uncaring of the precarious state of his health.  
  
This took a few seconds to sink in. Zarkov's 'preparation' for the injection had not been gentle; the pain she had administered to break down Briggs' mental defenses had not inflicted further physical injury over the beating he'd already received, but had sapped whatever meager energy reserves he'd had. Michael blinked at her several times then nodded firmly, sheer determination putting him back in motion. "Yes. And we haven't much time."  
  
Secreting the body in the stairwell, Michael appropriated a handgun from the man's leather holster and extra ammunition, then followed the woman down the corridor, sweeping the walls and ceiling for surveillance equipment. He was forced to time his passage carefully to get past a camera; beyond that, there was nothing visible.  
  
They were halfway toward a steep right bend when Angelica stopped by one of the sliding panels, a puzzled look on her face. "Do you want to take the girl, too?"  
  
"Girl?" Michael parroted stupidly. "What girl?"  
  
"Amy Newman."  
  
"Donald Newman's daughter?!" She nodded and Michael stroked his mustache, smoothing it over the quirk of his lips. "Well, that answers a lot of questions. I was looking for a leak, but I didn't think it was going to turn out to be that highly placed." Angelica didn't reply, and Michael nodded. "Yes, I do want to take Amy Newman with me."  
  
The woman splayed her fingers on the inevitable inset control and activated a sequence, Michael this time watching her closely, his lips mouthing the numbers as she pressed them. "Your security codes?" he asked, being thoroughly ignored for his trouble.  
  
Within seconds that door had slid open and a curly-haired little girl stumbled to it, peeking out anxiously. "C-c'n I come out now?" she quavered, eying Michael with trepidation and Angelica with childish awe.  
  
Michael pasted on a smile, his innate charm kicking into gear spontaneously. "Come with me, sweetheart," he encouraged, shooing her out with an open hand. "My name is Michael and I'm going to take you home."  
  
Responding feminine-like to the charisma, her heart-shaped face brightened into a gap-toothed smile. "You'll take me to my daddy?"  
  
"I'll get you home," Briggs promised. "Stay with me and hurry!" Catching the urgency in his voice, the child snagged the trailing end of his shirttail in one dirty fist and held on, running to keep up with his longer- legged stride. They didn't have far to go for Angelica Horn had walked on while they talked, stopping only yards down the hall before another security entrance, a copy of the first.  
  
"He's in here," she murmured absently. "String's father." Again she utilized her codes and the door opened to ... nothing.  
  
"Are you sure this is the right one?" Briggs asked, disengaging Amy's fingers and cautiously peeking in. He ducked back just ahead of the tell- tale swish of disturbed air, the harbinger of a bludgeon descending. He caught himself and the body that tumbled out, against the electronic jamb, barely preventing a spill as his bad knee gave out. He cursed and straightened hurriedly, slipping on the polished floor in his socks, then thrust the other man away without letting go his hold. "Dominic!" he bellowed, nearly knocking the child over as he backed up. "It's me!"  
  
There was a silence, then a gray head rose to regard the trio with rampant disbelief. "Michael?" Santini's scarred face blanked first, then beamed, the heavy lines around brown eyes crinkling with happiness. "I wuz expecting Saint Peter again! Glad I only ended up with a run-of-the-mill Archangel!" He extended a hand that was instantly accepted. "What took you so long? I feel like I've been here years!"  
  
"Three months," Angelica said matter-of-factly, plucking at a silk thread on her nightgown. "Didn't they tell you?"  
  
That got Santini's attention. His head jerked in her direction, the welcome going out of his face. "What are you doing here?" he demanded harshly.  
  
"She's rescuing us." Michael released the mangled hand, his gaze lingering on the scarred arm visible past the loose white shirt, and the gaunt body. "You're looking a little the worse for wear, Dominic."  
  
The look he received was scathing. Santini reversed the crutch he'd tried to brain Michael with, placing the wide end under his armpit and redistributing his weight. "Burning jet fuel will do that. Not that you'd make the cover of Fortune 500." He squinted pointedly at the agent's swollen nose over the blood-dappled mustache.  
  
Michael shrugged, already turning to continue his scan of the hallway. "Let's call it a bad hair day and leave it at that."  
  
"Where's String?"  
  
"Tell you later." Michael passed over the handgun he'd taken from the guard to Santini, who stuck it in his waistband. "We have to get going before the general alarm goes up." Again he made to move off, stopping when Santini encased his forearm in an unexpectedly powerful grip.  
  
"I saw him." Dominic's voice was low, the brown eyes carrying a peculiar anguish reserved only for those he loved. "The boy was...."  
  
Michael firmly freed his arm, using it to brace the rifle. "I know. They brainwashed him and sent him after Airwolf. It's going to be up to us to get out of here and stop them from using it against our men."  
  
"Try not to worry too much about String," Santini retorted caustically. "It's not like he's worth a quarter of a trillion dollars of the Government's money."  
  
"Why you--!" Briggs bristled, his single blue eye blazing furiously. He stopped, regaining control only with an effort, and turned determinedly away. Behind, Dom's expression underwent a change from scorn to surprise to dawning comprehension. But Archangel was right -- there was no time to waste. Already there was a dull Whoop! Whoop! of an alarm sounding somewhere in the building.  
  
"That's from upstairs, where Father keeps his troops," Angelica said in a calm voice, crossing her arms across her breasts.  
  
Amy whimpered, regaining her grip on Archangel's shirttail. "I'm scared, Michael. I want my daddy!"  
  
"Donald Newman's daughter," Briggs told Santini as an aside, earning a sharp glance of understanding. "Our inside leak at the Firm."  
  
"Explains a few things. Don't worry, Amy, Uncle Michael and Uncle Dom will get you home. I promise." The girl smiled up at him and Dom smiled back, then turned to Angelica Horn, who was waiting quietly as though for directions. He studied her for a moment, then hobbled closer. "We need to contact our friends," he said when they were facing each other. "Is there a radio or even a telephone nearby that will reach the outside world?"  
  
Angelica had looked up at the clicking sound his crutch made on the floor, watching him cross the few yards to her with an enigmatic expression. Now she nodded wearily, beautiful features drawn and tired, the serenity still there in the purple shadowed eyes. "There's a radio command center just down the hall. Daddy ... I mean, my father uses it to keep in touch with his agents in the middle east and Europe."  
  
Dom ushered her ahead with an awkward little bow. "Lead on, Miss Horn. We're entirely in your hands."  
  
*** 


	26. Chapter 26

At Santini Air, Ramon Gutierrez stood hands-on-hips in the middle of the office, head cocked in a listening attitude until Caitlin and Jason's footsteps had faded back into the hangar. Then he sighed and turned back to his area of responsibility, the former DNS sub-Committee member, Donald Newman.  
  
"Looks like we got us a wait," Ramon said, plainly disappointed at having been left behind. "It's gonna take 'em a while just to get out to 'Vegas. Man, I wish I wuz goin' with them. Get in on the action."  
  
As though the building tension was too great to bear, Newman groaned and leaned forward, resting his face in both hands. "What a mess I've made of everything."  
  
Gutierrez nodded fairly but without heat. "Yeah, I'd say you're in for a rough time with your own people once this is all over."  
  
"Ah don't care about them," Newman muttered, threading his fingers together through his black hair. "All I want is my Amy back. Alive." He groaned again. "I worked my way up through the ranks at Langley without ever once taking a bribe or disobeying an order. Now I've been arrested as a traitor to my country. But what else could I do?"  
  
The armchair chair stood invitingly empty. Gutierrez seated himself and lifted his feet up onto Jo's neat desk, the hiss of the air conditioner not quite drowning out the squeak of leather as he slid down to sit comfortably on his spine. "I'm not gonna be able to answer that one for ya," he said, reaching into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. "No one can but you. In the police force we have a saying, that a man who won't be blackmailed, can't be blackmailed. That's true to a point, but when you're dealing with kidnappers, things turn a little gray." Light flared briefly as he lit his cigarette. "Not sayin' I approve, understand, but I know what family means. Come from a big one myself -- six boys and four girls."  
  
Although obviously not in a mood for small talk, Newman's southern courtliness was ever a part of his nature. It dictated that he at least raise his head in a semblance of interest. "More than I'm used to," he said, swallowing. "My wife and I had planned two children; Amy was the only one we had before she passed on. Now I might have lost her too."  
  
Leather squeaked again when Gutierrez leaned forward to toss the spent match into an empty ashtray by his foot. "Give 'em a chance," he advised, contentedly drawing white smoke into his lungs and expelling it as a little ring. "I don't know those others, but I've worked with Caitlin for three months now and know she's a good cop. If she thinks that Locke guy and his team can do the job, you can bet some money on it."  
  
"I'm betting my daughter's life on it," Newman retorted frustratedly. "As if ah have a choice in the matter." In an agitated move, he suddenly rose, pacing the office four steps in one direction, four in the other, while Ramon watched him with deceptive indifference although the increased tautness in his stocky body showed he was ready for any move the agent might make toward the door. "Ah've dealt with John Bradford Horn in the past -- before he was indicted in Washington. That's how he knew about me and Amy. The man is efficient and deadly, and he's got the money to back up what he wants to do. That's a combination I couldn't fight."  
  
"That's because you tried to fight him alone." The CHiPs officer puffed again, brown eyes boring into his prisoner's back. "These guys aren't going in one at a time; they're a team. That's going to make the difference."  
  
"But how can you be sure...?"  
  
He waved his free hand casually. "Like I said, Cait is sure, and that's good enough for me."  
  
In another abrupt move, Newman threw himself back into his chair and began to chew his thumbnail. "You seem to trust her quite a lot for having been partners only three months," he pointed out by way of conversation.  
  
"Partners is the word, man. 'Course ..." He wiggled his thick eyebrows suggestively, tone taking on the easy masculine informality of his Latin culture. "... now that my divorce in final, I'm hopin' to know her a whole lot better before long." He sighed. "Hope I get the chance."  
  
"Why wouldn't you?" Newman wanted to know. "Doesn't she return your respects?"  
  
Gutierrez watched the rising smoke from his cigarette for several seconds, heavy brows now lowered. "Not sure yet," he began cautiously. "I might still have some competition from that Hawke guy. Stringfellow." He made a face as though tasting something bad. "Where'd he ever get a name like that? His parents must not'a wanted any kids. And I'd like to see you spell SinJin."  
  
With a shade of amusement peeking through his gloom, Newman complied.  
  
Gutierrez stared. "No way! If his name is spelled Saint John ..." He pronounced it phonetically. "... why don't they say it that way? Never mind." He held up a hand. "Don't want to know. Anyway, like I wuz sayin', Cait thought this String guy might lighten up with his brother back. She said without the grim attitude she might have kept up her play for him."  
  
Newman's thin lip curled. "I wouldn't worry on that score. I studied his modified psychological profile when my division took over the ... uh ... project he's involved in." He shook his head. "I only dealt with the guy briefly in the past, but no one at Company headquarters envied Archangel ... I mean Michael, the job of handling that stubborn, hot-shot test pilot. And after what he did...."  
  
"What did he do?" Ramon interrupted curiously.  
  
The agent's craggy face twisted with indignation. "He stole a highly classified piece of military hardware and used it to blackmail the United States government."  
  
"You mean that Airwolf thing everyone was talking about earlier?"  
  
Newman's eyes veiled, years of protecting high clearance materials bringing the conversation to a screeching halt. "Ahm afraid that's not something I can discuss."  
  
Gutierrez shrugged. "So, what was he after? I figure you guys would have just paid him if it was money."  
  
"You know his brother Saint John was MIA for fifteen years?" Ramon nodded. "Hawke's deal with the Company was the hardware for his brother despite all indications that Saint John Hawke was long dead."  
  
White teeth flashed under the dark mustache as the policeman grinned widely. "Judging from the fact that the brother is back, I'd say all indications were wrong, wouldn't you? Looks like this Stringfellow was in the same position you were -- doing what he had to do for his family."  
  
The point visibly hit home. Donald Newman's expression blanked then lightened fractionally with a thoughtfulness that hadn't been there previously. "I never thought of it that way. Maybe I'm starting to understand how he was feeling all those years." Sadly, "Perhaps I've misjudged the boy all this time."  
  
Ramon shrugged again and stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette. "Maybe you'll have a chance to tell him that later. Maybe."  
  
*** 


	27. Chapter 27

Officer Caitlin O'Shaunessey expertly guided the CHiPs helicopter through the air traffic surrounding busy Van Nuys, directing it due northeast toward the spot outside of Las Vegas, Nevada, where she would intercept the rest of the assault team. In the seat normally occupied by Ramon Gutierrez, Jason Locke sat slightly hunched, one hand pressing the headphones tighter against his left ear.  
  
"... when we rendezvous," the black man was saying, talking loudly to be heard over the roar of the engine. "Grid coordinates four-seven-one, bearing two-zero, confirm. Lobo will echo our ETA plus fifteen. Do you copy?" He listened to the voice at the other end of the scrambled frequency, then nodded. "Roger," he acknowledged a moment later. "Out." Locke flicked a switch on the comm unit, reconnecting himself to Caitlin's headset. "Epsilon Guard is en route," he told her. "They have two choppers, members of Zebra Squad filling out the roster on the third. Airwolf will converge on our position fifteen minutes after we join up with Brewster's unit."  
  
She nodded absently, her gaze flicking first to the instrument panel and then to the vista unfolding several thousand feet below, the rugged California hills just beginning to give way to flatter desert contours. "Never did like having anything to do with Zebra Squad," she remarked, tapping one of her gauges with a short fingernail. "The whole idea of an assassination team gives me the creeps."  
  
"Be that as it may," the other returned, also scanning the terrain, "Zebra Squad is superbly trained, and Epsilon Guard is one of the finest assault teams I've ever seen. We're going to need the best to penetrate Horn's defenses and save the hostages."  
  
The woman pulled back lightly on the collective, then adjusted the cyclic, increasing their altitude and giving the helicopter a flatter, nose-to-the- horizon trim. "Ah'm not really complaining on that part," she drawled, green eyes invisible to him behind the dark sunglasses. "Ah'd deal with the devil himself if it would get Dom and Michael back. Working with the Firm much as I have, I feel like I already have."  
  
Locke laughed, one brow lifting into his hairline. "You don't seem to have a very high opinion of us, Officer O'Shaunessey. I assure you, we're not all the ogres you must imagine."  
  
She glanced at him startled, a becoming blush tinting her peaches-and-cream complexion with rose. "Awww, heck, ah didn't mean nothin' personal!"  
  
Locke's mustache bristled humorously over his grin. "Frankly, Miss O'Shaunessey ..." He leaned his head confidentially closer to her's. "... you're probably right. We just don't like to let it get around. Image, you know."  
  
She giggled at his friendly gambit. "Image I learned from Michael!" The name sobered her again. "I wonder how Michael is doing? He's been in Horn's hands as long as Hawke was, Dom even longer! And you heard what Jo said about the kind'a shape Hawke was in back at the Lair."  
  
Jason turned to look at her fully, studying her profile. "If you mean Stringfellow Hawke, I agree, but at least he's safe now. They can drop him at a hospital on the way...."  
  
Caitlin interrupted that with an impatient chopping gesture. "You kin forgit that. He ain't going to no hospital. I've seen him hobble around on a busted leg for a couple of weeks rather than even go in for x-rays. Boy is as stubborn as a Missouri mule."  
  
Jason harumphed, the effect through the mike that of a cat hacking up a furball. "I noticed. We've clashed a time or two in the past. The first time we met we nearly ended up knocking each other's blocks off."  
  
"Sounds like him," she said, unconsciously placing responsibility for the near collision on the pilot. "Ah take it you had some security boys standing by to break it up?"  
  
Near-black eyes widened, surprised. "How did you know that? Course correct bearing two degrees south," he added, consulting a chart.  
  
She obeyed automatically, realigning on the new compass heading, then picked up on the conversation, her Texas accent growing slightly thinner. "'Cause I know Stringfellow Hawke, that's how I knew. That boy doesn't never back down once he's got his mind set on getting something. So either you gave him what he was after or you had security drag him off."  
  
Jason tilted his head suspiciously. "How do you know I didn't give him what he wanted?"  
  
She wrapped her fingers more securely around the collective, then glanced at him, looking ever so slightly superior. "Because what he wanted was his brother, and I understand Saint John wasn't rescued 'til almost a week later -- after Hawke was hurt."  
  
Jason smiled appreciatively at the deduction. "You're one smart cop, Officer."  
  
"Caitlin," she corrected, returning the friendly smile.  
  
"Caitlin." Locke adjusted his suit jacket over his broad shoulders, then touched his tie. "Actually, what went down was a little bit of both. Security did pull him off me before I had to get rough myself, but he was only looking for some kind of background data on that recording of Saint John's voice Buchard sent. That much I could give him, plus a little information I dug up on Hawke's last mission for the Company."  
  
"I was on location with a film crew when most of that was going down," Caitlin said, a sad expression crossing her elfin features. "I made it to the funeral but like I told Jo Santini, I kept getting that feeling like ah was being watched, and had to keep my distance for a while."  
  
Strong hands clasped in his lap briefly while Locke regarded the woman with open speculation. "Very wise, as things turned out. Pity -- with your experience, you would have been welcome to join us. You've got security clearance and are more familiar with Airwolf's systems than any of us were." He lifted one wide shoulder in a little shrug. "Mike, Jo and I had to practically muddle our way through that first mission into Myanmar. If I hadn't worked on similar computers in the past, we wouldn't even have had access to all the sensor equipment."  
  
"Yeah, ah learned the boards pretty well while I was flying." Caitlin gestured at the interior of the helicopter she was piloting, a satisfied smile lightening the shadows on her face. "I think I'm doing pretty well now with the Highway Patrol. It's a lot different from the flying meter maid routine I was pulling back in Texas. And Ramon is a great partner; got me out of a couple'a scrapes already."  
  
"Different than working with Stringfellow Hawke, I'll bet," Jason teased good-naturedly.  
  
She laughed out loud at that. "Different? Listen, Mr. Locke, during all the time I knew Stringfellow Hawke, I could count the number of times I saw him smile on the back of a postage stamp. And except for the little digs he and Dom gave each other, he never once -- never once told a single joke." She glanced mischievously at the agent before again sweeping the instrument panel. "You clashed with Hawke; you tell me how different he is from Ramon."  
  
He joined in her laughter, adding his mellow rumble to her light soprano. "Not much of a comedian," he agreed, "unlike your partner, judging from what you've been telling me. But I'm still considering recruiting Stringfellow on a permanent basis for the Airwolf team. I didn't get the impression he would be the best undercover agent we've got...."  
  
"He's got all the subtlety of a bucking bronco," the woman interjected fondly.  
  
"I noticed that, too." They shared another amused look. "But Saint John, Mike and I are all trained in intelligence work, so there'd be no shortage along that line. And Jo's turned out to have a flair in the field, for all we've used her only when we didn't have a choice."  
  
"She could probably do with a little more training?" Caitlin suggested gently.  
  
"If she keeps on working with the Company, she's going to have to get some," he agreed. "So far she's refused. Said it would take too much time away from the air transport business."  
  
Caitlin scanned the crisp, cloudless sky, changing course a few degrees when she spotted an incoming twin engine. "Santini Air used to be a full time occupation. There was even a part-time mechanic working there until Dom's ... accident."  
  
"Everett Logan. He's still at Van Nuys." At her glance, he shrugged. "A complete security check was the first thing I ran when I took over Archangel's responsibilities." He waved that away. "As I was saying, while Jo's a good pilot, she's not a combat pilot -- Stringfellow Hawke is. According to Mike, maybe the best there is. I think having him on the team could be useful, freeing Saint John and Mike to handle more of the ground work."  
  
"You sound like you're putting a whole unit together instead of one team," Caitlin said, turning to stare at the black agent fully. When he maintained a politic silence, she turned away. "Don't know if the other two would go for something like that. Three macho pilots and one little Airwolf?"  
  
The man shifted uncomfortably. "That's occurred to me, also. Stringfellow seems to grate on Major Rivers even worse than he does me. They're diametric opposites; I'm afraid there would always be a power struggle going on for the helicopter if not command -- something I can't afford to allow for the sake of morale if not team unity. Saint John, at least, would be glad to see his brother with us. Maybe."  
  
"Maybe?" One light brow rose above the rim of the sunglasses, disappearing under the fringe of copper colored hair she wore as bangs. "You're not sure he'd want his own brother working with him?"  
  
Locke dipped his head, and pulled his handgun out of the shoulder holster he habitually wore under his tailored jacket. He carefully checked that the safety was on and ejected the clip. "Saint John is usually pretty laid back -- he takes his orders and makes them work whatever it costs. Usually."  
  
"Follows his own mind on how to get 'em done, though, doesn't he?" The policewoman nodded to herself. "Dom used to say that he and String ran on different tracks but both chugged along in the same direction."  
  
Locke paused, thinking that over. "What does that mean?"  
  
She shrugged. "No idea."  
  
"Anyway," the other went on stolidly; he proceeded to recheck the gun's load, one bullet at a time. "Hawke ... Saint John turns out to have a pretty strong protective streak where his brother is concerned. He didn't even let us know Stringfellow was still alive much less recovering from the explosion. He didn't even tell Jo."  
  
"Or me." O'Shaunessey's words carried more than an undercurrent of hurt. "Hawke might have spent a few months out of touch, but he could have gotten me a note or something if he'd wanted to bad enough." She pursed her lips, face carefully expressionless. "An' don't think he's any looser on the protective side. Or is possessive a better word? Not once during all the time ah've known him would he ever share even scraps about Saint John. Don't even know if he talked about him much with Dom, and I know Dom tried."  
  
"Sounds like they are running on parallel tracks," Locke stated, applying his own spin to Santini's analysis. "You must know the two well. I assume you all got close during the eighteen months you worked for Santini Air?"  
  
She considered the matter seriously and long enough to bring a question to his eyes. "I guess if I had to pick the one person closest to 'em, it would be me," she decided, choosing her words carefully. "They liked me -- even let me into their little family circle to a point. But there was always a line I couldn't cross -- a piece of them I wasn't allowed to touch." She bit her lip, copper hair gleaming where the sun hit it. "The only reason I even found out about Airwolf was because String and Dom were both laid up in the hospital and Michael was being held in East Germany. In other words, they were stuck."  
  
"It seems to have worked out," the agent soothed, holding a steel-jacketed bullet up to the light. "You flew several missions with them, didn't you?"  
  
She nodded. "Whenever I could -- mostly in the back seat. I'm a good pilot -- a real good chopper pilot, but flying Airwolf takes a little more than muscling around a joy stick. Didn't matter much; I was willing to take that big, black helicopter any way I could get her!"  
  
"I've flown Airwolf occasionally myself, mostly with computerized assist, and I agree completely." Finished checking his ammo, Locke began to reload the clip. "Not that I'm anywhere near the level of either Mike or Saint John, and Stringfellow is supposed to be even better yet."  
  
"Best pilot I've ever seen," Cait agreed proudly.  
  
Locke slipped the clip back into the butt of the gun and reholstered it. "Perhaps, but one thing he's not is a team player, and I do need someone who isn't going to fight with me at every turn." He grinned self- deprecatingly. "Guess I don't have Michael's touch with him."  
  
"Not many do." Caitlin stretched her left leg, wiggling her foot before returning it to the tail rotor controls. "Michael Coldsmith-Briggs is the highest-class snake oil salesman I ever met. Saw him in action a few times, even caught on to his game once or twice. He almost never argued with Hawke -- not that it would have made much difference once way or the other. He just kind of aimed him like a gun and let him fire himself."  
  
"Whatever works," Locke muttered doubtfully.  
  
She tossed her head. "Only thing that did work on him except for Dom. They'd do just about anything for each other."  
  
"That's all very touching," the agent returned without sarcasm, "but the unit no longer consists of just those two. Saint John, Mike, Jo and I are a full team, and have to coordinate as one. Granted, those three are usually only called in when it looks like Airwolf is going to be needed, but we've all been part of covert ops as well."  
  
"Often?"  
  
"Often enough." He stroked his mustache, sharp mind engaged elsewhere though he still addressed the woman. "On many occasions we need an operative rather than a test pilot. Saint John can do that."  
  
"While String is a pretty bad liar despite that poker face he's got." Caitlin automatically corrected for an updraft, voice thoughtful. "I've only met Saint John a few times, and he's not what I expected. I watched Hawke fight to get him back, but now that I've met him it's hard to believe those two are even related. They may favor each other a bit with the coloring and around the eyes, but they can be so different. I mean, he's more like that Major Rivers than he is String." She paused. "I wonder how much of that has to do with the last fifteen years? I saw what String went through, but I can only imagine what Saint John suffered as a prisoner."  
  
Jason too sobered at the thought. "I did two tours in Viet Nam and even I have trouble imagining. Pity, too. If Saint John hadn't been captured, he could have been a good DEA operative once the war ended." He dropped his head again, dark eyes troubled. "When I was over there, I saw what the NVA did to their prisoners. A lot of them are still in hospitals -- won't ever get out."  
  
"Saint John Hawke seems to be in pretty good shape," Caitlin commented with a worried look.  
  
Jason's nod was quick. "Remarkably so. The psych profile we required before formally sanctioning him on the team showed that he was adapting even better than expected to the changes of freedom. Being on the team helped considerably; he had a purpose and station in life -- some kind of foundation."  
  
The chopper bucked slightly, meeting a headwind, and Cait again increased their altitude until the turbulence ceased. "You don't think just being back with String would have done it?" she asked, hands working their magic on the controls with a minimum of conscious effort.  
  
He waggled his fingers, a negative gesture. "Not according to our staff psychiatrist. About half of the adjustment trauma Saint John is working through is directly connected to his relationship with his younger brother. According to their files, there's a great deal of guilt on both sides. Stringfellow has spent the last fifteen years paying for his decision to leave Saint John behind during that firefight; Saint John knows that, and is having trouble handling the fact that his brother hurt for so long on his behalf. It's going to take them a long time to get over that. According to the reports I read, Stringfellow might never be able to put it behind him, and if he doesn't, Saint John won't." He brightened. "However, being part of the Airwolf team has at least given Saint John a focus beyond his brother's problems, and that's exactly what he needs right now."  
  
Caitlin shook her head wonderingly. "You might end up with a decent team, provided Saint John is willing to give up the flight commander's seat in Airwolf to do ground operations."  
  
"He won't have to completely, of course, but for his brother, I think he will," Locke finished triumphantly. "If we can get past the problem with Mike, I think Saint John will go for anything that will make his brother part of the team."  
  
Then it was Caitlin's turn to be impressed. "Y'know, I may have oiled the wrong snake. If you can pull this one off, you may just be in Archangel's league after all."  
  
He regarded her suspiciously. "I may accept that as a compliment," he rumbled, eyes narrow. "But I think I'm going to think about it first. For a long time."  
  
*** 


	28. Chapter 28

It was an odd-moving quartet that reversed its direction, retreating back down the stairs then up the corridor to the communications center Angelica had indicated. She led the way, slender and beautiful, her translucent pink peignoir wafting behind as she moved. Behind came Michael Coldsmith- Briggs, his limp pronounced, pain and weariness drawing his well-defined jaw tighter with each step. Amy Newman, dressed in old brown slacks and top, clung tenaciously to his shirttail, her breath whistling between her missing front teeth. Dominic Santini trailed them all, gaunt body covered with the sweat of exertion, his gait a clumsy mixture of step-hop on his one remaining foot.  
  
The sliding security door that protected the communications center in view, when they ran into trouble. Only feet beyond, the elevator door at the hall's end opened and John Horn emerged, followed by three soldiers armed with Uzis. To the man's left and slightly in front of the escapees, more men appeared from the stairwell, each snapping into a lock-and-load position, awaiting only the order to fire. Everyone stopped in place, allowing Horn to step forward unobstructed.  
  
"I am prepared," he began without preamble, "to negotiate for the return of my daughter."  
  
Santini's ruddy skin darkened. "We don't--" he began, outraged at the assumption.  
  
"We don't make deals with guns pointed at us." Michael interrupted the older man before he could give voice to the thought that they weren't holding the woman prisoner. Michael's face didn't change save for a slight widening of his eye, hidden behind the thick lens of his glasses. He lifted the barrel of his rifle higher until it pressed against Angelica's side, one hand gripping her arm in a mock-fierce grip, which she barely deigned notice at all. "Tell your men to move back. Now!"  
  
"But not you," Dom added, aiming his automatic awkwardly at the industrialist. "We still got 'ta ... negotiate."  
  
The nearest mercenary, recognizable by Briggs as the thin, mock-effeminate Rombauer, glanced at Horn questioningly; the industrialist nodded. "Do as he says. Situation fourteen."  
  
"Yes, sir." The black clad man signaled, and the soldiers melted backwards. In the hush remaining, the sound of heavy boots on the steps was audible, even as was the hiss from the elevator closing.  
  
Horn remained standing alone in the middle of the corridor, looking solitary but dignified. His charcoal suit jacket was unwrinkled, his platinum hair impeccably groomed; the man looked more as if he was heading for a executive meeting than the middle of a combat zone. No trace of fear marred the handsome face and he did not so much as glance at his daughter. His light blue eyes, so near the shade of Angelica's, remained locked on Archangel's, a sardonic smile twisting one corner of his mouth. "The troops are gone and I am quite unarmed." He raised both hands to chest level to show they were empty. "Now what?"  
  
"Now, we make a phone call." Michael approached the man cautiously for all his claim at being unarmed, and shoved him into the room Angelica had indicated earlier. Horn looked surprised at the destination but did as he was told, closely followed by the rest of the escapees. It did indeed turn out to be a communications center, a state-of-the-art radio filled the near right corner of the twelve-by-twelve foot area, of the type used to contact operators all across the globe. To the left, a bank of monitors glowed softly, their output coming from the security cameras across the estate. A large computer mainframe sat against the rear wall, completing the picture. There were no windows or other exits; the air was fresh, conducted through a grating located at waist level and to the right of the computer.  
  
"Nice cell we got here," Santini remarked dryly, keying shut the sliding security door from the inside.  
  
Horn retreated to the far side, watching the group patronizingly. "My men have orders not to let you leave the estate."  
  
Michael, holding the rifle threateningly in one hand, turned the industrialist, shoving him roughly against the wall, then gave the man a rapid pat down for weapons. "I think they will; they're not going to risk my shooting the guy who signs their paychecks. Do you have the radio worked out, Dominic?"  
  
Santini settled heavily into the seat before the radio, laying the crutch on the floor and replacing the pistol in his waistband. He studied the equipment quickly and pressed several buttons; gauges and tell-tales glowed to life at once. "No problem -- fancy design, standard controls." He twisted a dial, selecting the special frequency the Firm reserved for emergency use only, and thumbed on the mike. "Knightsbridge...."  
  
"Use my identification," Archangel called, stepping back from Horn but not taking his eyes off the man as he turned.  
  
"Right." Santini nodded. "Knightsbridge, this is Seraphim One calling an Armageddon code. Repeat, this is Seraphim One calling an Armageddon Code. Knightsbridge, please acknowledge."  
  
There was a crackle from the speaker, then a woman's voice answered, cool and calm. "Seraphim One, this is Knightsbridge. Armageddon code received. Give us your coordin--"  
  
The mike went dead. Dom frantically pressed several keys, trying frequency after frequency, but static was all he could raise. "They took out the antenna," he said, angrily throwing the mike to the desk. He leaned forward, dropping his head in his hand. Exhaustion hung on his wasted frame, the reminder that he had spent the last three months in inactivity while recovering from horrible injuries. "It was before I could get a location out."  
  
Horn watched the display with amusement. "Did you really think it would be that easy? Although I will admit you've done well so far in capturing both myself and my daughter." With a vague wave and without so much as looking at her, he indicated Angelica, who was standing in front of the door, hands pressed against her sides, enigmatic gaze fixed on her father's face. "You might have at least let her dress before dragging her out of bed." "I want my daddy," Amy whimpered, beginning to cry.  
  
Dom patted her shoulder clumsily, then slid an arm around her skinny little shoulders and pulled her into a hug. "Don't be afraid, sweetheart, Uncle Dom is going to get you out of this somehow."  
  
"For real?" she asked, lifting her head from his white shirt front and staring at him with childish trust.  
  
He forged a grimace into a smile. "Sure. You just have to stay calm for a little while and do what we say, okay?"  
  
She nodded, tears stopping like a faucet; she'd probably cried herself out over the past few months. "Okay." She sniffed then coughed.  
  
Michael glanced at the child then tilted his head. "Do you hear it?"  
  
"Hear what?" Dom asked, coughing once and cocking his still-working left ear. "I don't hear anything."  
  
Lips parted with alarm, Michael's gaze centered on the single vent feeding oxygen into the room. "Gas!" he yelled, leaping immediately into action. He looked around frantically, his eye lighting on the calmly staring industrialist. He one-handedly shoved Horn back against the wall, using that same grip to remove the man's gray jacket. He didn't bother with the niceties but rather ripped it off, sending the buttons flying in all directions. Michael yanked open the grate, then stuffed the jacket into the vent, blocking off the flow. He then threw himself against the mainframe, pushing with all his might. His left knee buckled under him once, eliciting a short bark of pain, but he redistributed his weight and pushed again, this time succeeding in moving the heavy computer six inches to the right until it covered the vent. Another push from the front and it sat flush against the wall.  
  
"That ... may buy us some time," he panted, sagging weakly against the front of the computer, visibly fighting for consciousness as his abused body protested the strain. "But it's going to get pretty stuffy soon. We may have to crack the door."  
  
Santini watched from his chair, unable to make even the effort to assist the agent, Amy hiding behind him. "That's why Horn was so willing to accompany us," he remarked tiredly. "He probably has traps all over the place."  
  
"I pride myself on being prepared for any eventuality." The now openly smiling industrialist straightened, turning to again face his captors, minutely adjusting the diamond cufflinks at his wrists until they hung with millimetric perfection. "With my men warned, you'll never make it out of here alive."  
  
"My father's men are very well trained," Angelica agreed, breaking so long a silence that everyone jumped, having nearly forgotten she was there. "They're already coming back." She pointed at the monitors, where could be seen a small squad of troops making their way down the corridor.  
  
Michael took a deep breath, running his sleeve across his sweat sheened face. Every move was an obvious effort, but he forced his legs to carry him back across the room, shooing the woman to the side of the door. He pressed it open, loosed a few shots at the men and closed it again, not waiting to see them scatter. "They thought the gas would have knocked us out by now. It'll take them awhile to come up with a new plan."  
  
"A very little while," Angelica said softly.  
  
Michael glanced in her direction but no more. He tilted his head, studying the bank of security monitors. "Horn's men are all over -- looks like they're covering the exit from the elevator and the stairs. We'll have to make sure to use the hostages to prevent them getting a clear shot." He took Horn by the shoulder, his fingers sinking painfully into the solid muscles under the silk shirt. "After you, John," he invited urbanely, ushering the man towards Angelica's position. "Come on, Dominic."  
  
Santini made to obey, retrieving his crutch, then using it to lever himself up. He managed one step before his remaining foot gave out, spilling him to the floor, just missing Amy, who was by his side. The crutch and pistol landed with a double clatter, skidding several feet in opposite directions.  
  
"Dominic!" Michael yelled, looking torn between continuing to cover Horn and going to his companion. "Are you all right?"  
  
The older man took a deep breath and jacked himself up onto one elbow, unable to even fully sit. "Not gonna make it, Michael," he panted. "Not enough juice left in the old body to go any further. You'd better try for a break without me."  
  
Briggs snorted, his face a picture of rebelliousness. "Are you kidding? Can you picture Hawke ever letting me off the hook if I left you behind?"  
  
"Since when do you care what String thinks of you?" Santini countered gruffly.  
  
There was a moment's disbelieving silence while a slow flush worked its way up Briggs' neck. "I told you once, Dominic," he gritted with an element of guilt in his carefully controlled voice, "I am not a machine. I never said I didn't care."  
  
The scornful look on the pilot's face faded, consideration sharpening his eyes. "Why do I get the impression there's something you're not telling me?"  
  
"Later!" Archangel barked, ending the subject. "We have to go now! Try to get up."  
  
To do him credit, Santini gave it a game try. He forced himself up inch by agonizing inch, managing to make it all the way to his knees before his strength evaporated and he collapsed with a loud groan. Michael started at the sound, gaze involuntarily shifting to his friend. That lapse was all John Bradford Horn needed. He tensed, jabbing Michael violently in the stomach with his elbow, then swinging his clenched fist up and back into the agent's face, loosening his grip on the rifle. Horn scooped it up, leveling it at the very center of the agent's chest.  
  
"As I mentioned," Horn said, breathing heavily, "I'm prepared for any eventuality. Angelica," he called over his shoulder. "Open the door. We're leaving. All of us." When there was no reply, a puzzled look crossed the man's handsome features. He shifted his position so he could see both his daughter and prisoners at the same time. "Angelica? Open the door."  
  
"I don't think that's going to happen, Mr. Horn," Dominic said softly, lifting his head. "Not this time."  
  
Angelica Horn smiled calmly, large eyes fixed with genuine affection on her father. Her hands, however, were no longer pressed against her sides. Her right hand was up, now revealing the little Beretta she'd used with such effectiveness against Lydia. That was not what made Horn gape at her, but rather the target she had chosen.  
  
"Why are you pointing that gun at me?" the industrialist demanded. "Cover Santini."  
  
Angelica's tranquil smile widened. "They have to go home, Father," she told him calmly, not moving the gun. "This nightmare has to stop somewhere. Don't you see that?"  
  
Indignation dropped from Horn's face, replaced with shock. "Anastasia was correct," he said aloud. "I didn't realize how near the edge you were, Daughter."  
  
Angelica dismissed that with a wave. "The nightmare is over now."  
  
One eye on his captives, Horn made a great show out of lowering the gun although it coincidentally happened to remain pointed in Michael's direction. "I wondered how Archangel escaped Anastasia's clutches. You helped them?"  
  
"The nightmare is over now," she repeated serenely, not avoiding his scrutiny but rather welcoming it. "Over at last."  
  
Horn frowned, then brightened, confidence unruffled by her attitude. "It's not necessarily over, Daughter," he told her gently. "Not so long as I trust you." He took a step forward, smiling paternally. "Could you really betray me, Angelica? Your own father? I don't think so."  
  
Her answering smile was sunlight itself. The tracks in her face and around her mouth melted away leaving her skin smooth, her turquoise eyes filled with such peace that anyone who saw her would have agreed that her name was more than appropriate -- she was as celestial as any heavenly being could have hoped to be. "I could never betray you, Father. I told you that once before. I love you."  
  
"Then put down the gun, Daughter," Horn coaxed, relaxing when the little pistol was pointed at the ceiling.  
  
She shook her head. "I could never betray you. But I have to do this." The gun dropped, retargeting just as her slim finger tightened on the trigger....  
  
*** 


	29. Chapter 29

Inside the sanctuary known as the Lair, a state of shadow dominated for a period of twenty-two hours out of each day. It was only for a short period on either side of noon that the sun stood high enough to send a brilliant shaft down the great stone chimney to shed illumination upon the world inside the mountain. By accident or design this single shaft always spotlighted the ebon predator that waited patiently within. Not that it ever did much good -- absorbent black armor drank in the gold, muting the effect and giving the impression of twilight even where there was none. The sun persevered, however, and waged its short-lived battle with the thirsty metal until the last ray had passed beyond the rim, leaving Airwolf ill-seen, once again a creature of the dark.  
  
From somewhere a wind had picked up, more than the gentle zephyr that forever blew through the tunnels and caverns, carrying with it the eternal chill that reigned at this altitude. This chill had been foreseen, however, as had the encroaching shade, battled by the devices man had created to sustain life against nature's opposition. Lamps replaced the sun, kerosene heaters kept out the cold, and within this artificial womb against the elements three people -- two men and a woman -- worked on the damaged beast that was Airwolf. They talked little save to coordinate their efforts, each well versed in their task and united by the common bonds of a team well forged. Three people worked while a fourth lay cocooned near the main computer terminal, sleeping uneasily under the inducements of drugs, pain and grief. He tossed his head, twitching weakly under the woollen blanket, youthful face twisting in the throes of nightmare ... or memory?  
  
"Dom?' he whispered, the low voice naught but a muted shriek. "Saint John?"  
  
A large hand descended on the sleeper's shoulder, pressing it lightly. "Shhhh. I'm here, String. Take it easy."  
  
A startled gasp escaped Stringfellow's lips. Sapphire eyes snapped open, seeking the silver-gray ones regarding him calmly from above. "Saint John? Is that--?"  
  
"Right here." Saint John Hawke settled the circuit board he was examining on the mat next to his foot, and leaned farther into the other's line of sight. "Y'all right?"  
  
Stringfellow blinked up at him, his bruised face and the squint as he tried to focus already giving lie to any possible affirmative answer. "I'm ... not sure," he croaked through a dry throat. "How do I look?"  
  
Saint John tipped his head, examining his brother candidly without letting go the shoulder he still gripped. "You've been perkier," he returned, one side of his mouth lifting in a thin smile. "And prettier. Which hurts worse, the ribs, the burns or that concussion?"  
  
Lines of concentration crossed the younger man's forehead as he considered the question seriously. He lifted his left hand, freeing it from the blanket with an effort, and turning it palm up to stare at the pristine white bandages swathing it around the middle. "Nothing hurts," he said wonderingly, next touching the now-cleaned up bruise on his temple. "Or else I just don't care. Everything is all ... far away." He waved vaguely, apparently finding one of the overhead floodlights fascinating. "How much of that stuff did Rivers give me?"  
  
"You mean the morphine?" Saint John's gray eyes flicked to the discarded tin box on the injured man's far side. "Not enough to keep you unconscious for long, obviously. I think most of that is just because you're so worn. The anesthetic effect should last a while longer, at least." He continued his scrutiny while his brother forced his attention away from the light and blinked himself awake, nodding slowly at the returned intelligence in those shadowed blue eyes. "You're looking a bit better," he amended his earlier statement. He used his left hand to brush back String's mussed brown hair, then pressed it flat on the other's forehead. "Nasty fever, but I see you haven't forgotten how to get the most out of the least rest."  
  
Stringfellow shook off the other's hand and levered himself up onto his elbow, settling his bleary gaze on the older pilot, who was seated in a comfortable cross-legged position to the right of the sleeping bag. "You draw babysitting detail?" he asked grumpily.  
  
Saint John picked up the circuit board, using a magnifying glass to study it for imperfection. "First, it's as easy for me to work in a comfortable position as it is to sit all cramped up under Airwolf. Second ..." He shrugged casually, holding the magnifying glass closer to the board and not raising his head. "... I've had a few nightmares in my day. Sometimes it's nice to have someone nearby when you wake up from one."  
  
Disarmed by the reasonable tone -- something Saint John had always been able to do -- Stringfellow dropped his eyes to the old brown wool blanket. "That's what Dom used to say whenever he wanted me to stay over."  
  
"To chase away his nightmares?" Saint John returned, looking up again. "Or yours?" The younger pilot didn't answer, and Saint John rested the glass on his knee. "Funny thing about dreams, sometimes it's hard to tell when they leave off and reality starts without a push in the right direction." He stretched, grimaced and jabbed at the small of his back. "I ever tell you about a guy named Lee Monahan?"  
  
"No."  
  
Finished with his back, Saint John next stretched his long arms over his head, having to stifle a yawn with one fist. "In Laos the prisoners were more like a little community than the scattered every-man-for-himself confusion we were stuck with under Charlie. Remember how that was?"  
  
String shrugged, still staring at the blanket. "They only had me for two months. I don't remember much of it."  
  
"You're better off." That was muttered but not low enough to escape the other's phenomenal hearing. String looked up questioningly, and Saint John met that gaze with a vague one of his own. "I was the one that found you when we raided the holding camp; I'm glad you don't remember much of it." He swallowed, attention moored irresistibly back to the past. "We all had nightmares in Laos. For most of us, settling into a steady routine seemed to be the trigger for our subconscious to work out the trash we'd gone through in Viet Nam. Those of us who had survived that long were starting to come out of that haze we'd been drifting in since we were captured. It was one of the first times we were able to look around and really see that there were other people with us. Before that, it was like flying on autopilot. Your mind sat back and watched your body do what it was told."  
  
His sharp eyes remained unfocussed, set on scenes, people, events, that had taken place a virtual lifetime ago. "That was when the dreams came, not much before then -- in Viet Nam every minute was a nightmare. But at least in Laos we could help each other through them. It was nice to have someone around when they got too rough."  
  
Grimacing only slightly, String pulled himself into a sitting position, his eyes roughly on level with his brother's. "This Lee Monahan helped you?" he asked in a voice roughened by regret and sympathy.  
  
Saint John nodded abstractedly. "Every night for months. Couldn't return the favor much. Lee had his nightmares while he was still awake." He shook his head wonderingly. "He'd be going along right as rain, then start yelling that Charlie was behind a tree. Only thing that protected him at first was that the Meo tribe we were working for were a little superstitious about mental problems. They thought he was under some kind of curse and didn't bother him. When we were transferred closer to the border, the new supervisors shot him the second day in."  
  
He broke off abruptly, once again seeking the other's face, need driving him to the only touchstone he'd been able to maintain through the barbarity that had been his every day existence. The harsh lines softened around his mouth with the support he found there, a tenderness entering his eyes for his hard-bitten, battle-tempered brother that appeared for few other people. "I couldn't do anything for Lee and I'm not much of one for babysitting someone as stubborn as you are, but I don't mind being around to point out the end of the sleeping nightmares and the beginning of the ones that grab you after you're awake."  
  
String leaned forward and braced himself against his knees, using one bandaged hand to rub his eyes. "Considering the last few days, I'd say that's a smart precaution. I seem to be having a little trouble telling the difference these days."  
  
He dropped his arm, staring dreamily at his brother for a long time. Saint John withstood the scrutiny for several minutes, then cocked one brow. "What?"  
  
Seemingly not hearing the interrogative, String absently fingered his ribs through the dirty white sweater and winced, the narcotic-muted pain still strong enough to restore him to awareness with a start. He blinked under his brother's quizzical gaze, then hurriedly averted his face. "Sorry," he muttered with vague embarrassment. "Talking about dreams made me realize ... I mean, if you are another impostor, how am I going to know?"  
  
"You didn't have any idea before?" Saint John asked curiously, referring to Mike Rivers' recitation of Zarkov's earlier attempt at procuring Airwolf. "Did the other guy look that much like me?" A calculated effort lightened his tone, and he lifted his chin. "He couldn't have been nearly as handsome. Or as brave. Or smart. Or...."  
  
Ignoring the attempt at humor, String shook his head slightly, then gulped and held his stomach when the action added a faint green tinge to his flushed cheeks. "He wasn't even close," he confessed, resetting his wandering attention on the dirt floor. "He was about ten years older and all worn, like he'd been in prison. I think he was like I was afraid you'd be after fifteen years with the V.C." He swallowed hard, glancing quickly up into those penetrating gray eyes then away, ashamed. "He was real good at it, too -- treated me like - like you would have. Between his acting and her drugs, I ... I really believed that another man was you. I believed it."  
  
"I'm sure they were real convincing," the elder Hawke muttered with more than a touch of anger although it was not directed at the exhausted man at his side. "Airwolf seems to attract 'em like cockroaches."  
  
"Yeah." The younger pilot touched his temple again, shutting his eyes briefly. "Maybe I should have known, but I was so happy to have you back I didn't even question them. Then when they asked for the Lady...."  
  
"Yes?" the other prodded after a moment.  
  
Quietly, "I gave her to them."  
  
Saint John studied him thoughtfully, still cradling the forgotten circuit board in one large hand. "What else could you have done?" he asked in a reasonable tone. "Your deal with the Company was to turn Airwolf over to them once I was found, wasn't it? So what's wrong with keeping your end of the bargain?"  
  
"I was a fool," the younger man whispered bitterly. "A gullible--"  
  
"What does it matter." Saint John interrupted the self-castigation promptly. "You beat her in the end."  
  
Then Stringfellow Hawke did look up, dull blue eyes full as they ever were of weary guilt. "We got Airwolf back thanks to Dom, not me. I never beat her -- it was her game all the way." Shame returned and grew stronger, mixed with the guilt. "When they told you about Zarkov ... did they mention the brainwashing was permanent?"  
  
The elder man tensed and went very still, only his lips moving. "What do you mean, permanent?"  
  
The blue eyes made to shift away, but the sheer presence in Saint John Hawke's gaze prevented this, forcing the continued contact. Finally, String sighed and licked his lips. "After Zarkov was through, I couldn't remember what you looked like anymore. I'd try to think of you and I'd see him -- his face. Even when I looked at your photograph on the mantle, I'd see him too."  
  
Understanding returned the lines to Saint John Hawke's strong-planed features, and with it a sadness that matched the younger man's. "It-it was a lousy photograph, anyway," he said, striving for a lighter note and failing miserably. "It was so grainy, the angle made me look more like Dad than me."  
  
"You look a lot like Dad," String returned absently, narcotics taking him down the side track with frightening ease. "You always did, even without the beard. I liked that picture ... at least, for as long as I could see it."  
  
Then the gray eyes did flicker away, a deep loss pooled in their depths. "That's what you meant when you said they'd managed to take me away too."  
  
String nodded and clumsily straightened, one arm around his midsection to support his ribs. "Right up until you walked into the hospital room, I saw him. Always. Every time I thought of you, every time I remembered you. After fifteen years, they took you away from me inside ..." He touched his chest over his heart. "... where I thought you were safe."  
  
The circuit board found its way to the mat next to the magnifying glass, leaving Saint John's hand free to reach out and touch his brother's arm. "Did Dom know?" he asked gently.  
  
Stringfellow shrugged. "I didn't tell'm but Dom always seemed to know a whole lot more than I thought he did. For a long time after that I couldn't turn around except there he was. I wanted to be alone but he wouldn't stay away."  
  
"Dom always did know best," the tall blond said with a quiet chuckle. "I always said he'd've made someone a great Italian mother."  
  
"Or father," the younger man returned fondly. The budding smile was aborted before it could do more than twitch his lips. "Archangel said I was wrong about it being Dom too," he whispered, pulling on the white wool of his sweater in a nervous gesture that was very unlike him.  
  
"Archangel would," the other grumbled, this time keeping his voice low enough that his brother's sharp ears could not hear.  
  
"The one thing I could count on was myself -- my own senses. And now I can't trust them, either." His round jaw jutted defiantly, at odds with the dread in his eyes. "What if you are some wasted old man who walks with a cane, or dead, instead of--"  
  
"Whoa!" Saint John raised a hand, cutting him off. He pulled himself erect, stiffening with mock indignation. "Take a good look at me, brother." He waited until the blurry blue eyes had more or less focussed on him, then tapped his own chest. "If there is the slightest bit of doubt that I'm the same guy who used to wail the daylights out of you when we were kids, I'll be glad to offer you a little proof!"  
  
The proposal was accepted seriously, blue eyes boring into gray as though there seeking the reassurance so badly needed. "He was a lot like I would have pictured you after so long."  
  
Saint John glowered, finding some faint amusement in the situation that translated into a sparkle in his eyes. "Are you telling me I'm too good looking to be your own brother?"  
  
The absurdity communicated to the younger man, twisting one side of his mouth up. "I never thought of it that way."  
  
"Think about it," the other advised, slapping the front of his coveralls heartily. "After all, I always was the heartbreaker in the family."  
  
"So you've told me."  
  
Despite the chuckle there was still a lingering question in his eyes that Saint John addressed seriously, willing to absorb the pain of memory for his brother's sake. "Most of the men who went into the camps did end up disease-ridden, walking skeletons," he began somberly, voice roughening. "The term with Charlie was the hardest because of the war; things were survivable in Laos -- not by much, but you could make it if the villagers liked you ... or if the overseers did. And I spent a solid year with the Cambodians toward the end; Khmer Rouge were butchers but they kept their merchandise in running order." His gaze, focussed inward, reflected every second of those fifteen years of slavery, his slightly nasal voice sourly ironic. "Being the personal pilot of the local warlord did bring a few advantages with the exalted position. I may have had to fly with a gun stuck in my ribs, but I got fed every day and deloused once a month whether I needed it or not."  
  
"Saint John."  
  
The softly uttered name snapped Saint John Hawke out of the past like an over-stressed rubber band. He met the present by taking a deep breath, expanding his broad chest to the full, and expelling it through his nose. He glanced down at the bandaged hand on his arm, the contact bleeding off the tension in his large-boned body. "I'm sorry. It does still hit me when I'm not careful. All of a sudden I'm in the highlands, or back in the rice paddies with Lee and Maridel." The apology was offered in the same tone his younger brother's had been. "I've only been back three months. After fifteen years I'm used to being there, but not here." He waved generally at their surroundings, the gesture taking in far more than the stone chamber carved out of the mountain. "There's too much to get used to. Styles, technology ... even the people are different. I feel like I'm stuck in a 1960's time warp. And I'm still eating fast food like it's going out of style. I've lived on burritos and pizza all week."  
  
"I tried to find you." String's raspy voice was pitched low, full of a guilty pain far beyond the physical, revealing the raw wounds that even his brother's return had not healed, and that they both carried. "I swear I tried to find you."  
  
Saint John covered the bandaged hand with his own, a muscle leaping in his clenched jaw. "You didn't just try, little brother, you succeeded! I'm back and now we have a chance at getting Dom back too!"  
  
The younger man shook his head, swallowing over a dry throat. "Don't expect too much. It only sets you up to be slapped back down."  
  
"You're a pessimist, brother," Saint John chided mildly.  
  
String regarded him wonderingly, dilated pupils making his eyes look huge. "After what you went through over there, why aren't you? You had more reason to be."  
  
There was a clang from the direction of the helicopter, then a low oath. Neither man gave any indication of having heard; their eyes were locked, their world at this moment consisting only of each other. Into this restricted sphere Saint John's simple reply carried all the impact of a pronouncement. He enunciated each word clearly, making sure they would penetrate a narcotics clouded mind to the heart, from his own. "If I'd've been a pessimist, I wouldn't have made it through the first year." He very carefully squeezed the hand he held, too gently to cause more pain to the badly burned palms, the intensity of his expression revealing his knowledge of how important this was that his brother understand. "One thing I never lost was hope -- I never stopped believing that I'd be going home some day. That kept me going a long time after the others gave up and ... let go of life."  
  
"I knew you'd never give up," String returned just as resolutely, though his voice was beginning to slur again. "Not you."  
  
Saint John shook his head firmly. "I couldn't. I think that's what happened to Lee just before he got shot. He stopped trying -- stopped caring -- and just let the dreams take over." Fondness filled those so- sharp gray eyes. "Lee didn't have a bullheaded kid brother looking for him -- didn't have any reason to hold on. I did." He leaned back, tilting his head again. "Of course, everything I went through isn't going to mean a thing if I don't still have that kid brother around, or if he doesn't believe in me anymore."  
  
"I'm not sure I ever did believe in you," the younger man returned with humor, dizzily shutting his eyes.  
  
Saint John laughed out loud. "Now you sound like Mike." Although the other couldn't see, he thumbed over his shoulder to the boyish, blond pilot who squatted under Airwolf's flank, scowling up into the missile compartment. Even as Saint John gestured, Mike Rivers slammed the access port and stood to slip an arm around the well-rounded figure of Jo Santini. She swatted him away good-naturedly, and Saint John laughed again. "We could have used Mike in 'Nam. With that never-say-die attitude, we could've taken Hanoi six months after Tet. I'll bet he and Marty Vidor would've gotten along great, don't you?"  
  
His genuine amusement faded at the unexpected reaction to this innocuous statement. The younger Hawke groaned softly and rested his face in his hand. "Marty...."  
  
Saint John touched his arm when he wobbled again, a worried frown replacing any trace of amusement. "Are you sure you're all right? You're looking awfully shaky."  
  
String blinked again, frowning hard as he scanned the Lair. "I'm fine. ... Is there any coffee?"  
  
"Ask and you shall receive." That was Jo, who had approached unnoticed from the direction of the nearly assembled gunship. She bore a paper cup, the aroma of coffee filling the immediate vicinity. "I brought a thermos with me. Figured we'd need a little boost before we were through. Are you hungry?"  
  
String wrinkled his nose, looking nauseated at the concept of food although he accepted the cup gratefully. "How near are you to done with Airwolf?"  
  
She patted his shoulder, a warm smile touching her pink lips. "Mike and I started the final phase while you two were over here gossiping. That's the most I've ever seen either one of you talk, especially you, String. How are you feeling?"  
  
"I'm fine," the pilot returned shortly.  
  
She sighed and placed her palm exactly where Saint John had earlier. "You're not fine, you're burning up. You need to see a doctor about those hands, too. And--"  
  
"Jo." String cut her off, pulling away from her attempted ministrations with a curt motion. "I'm fine. Leave me alone."  
  
She stopped, hurt and anger bringing a slow flush to her china skin. "Fine. You're fine. And frankly I hope you're feeling as fine as you look. It would serve you right. If that module is ready, Saint John...?"  
  
The elder Hawke picked up the circuit board he'd been working on and climbed slowly to his feet, again stretching his back. "This one checks out. Once we install it we can close her up."  
  
"Good. I'll show you where it goes." Jo tossed her head at the younger of her adopted cousins and followed the bronze-haired pilot to their teammate, who was wielding a screwdriver against the now fully extended ADF pod.  
  
"'Bout time, Saint John!" Rivers greeted them heartily, manhandling the armored panel that usually covered the deployment pod into position. "Lend a hand. Jo, take this screwdriver...."  
  
Stringfellow Hawke watched them disjointedly, still unsteady from the effects of the drugs, trauma and exhaustion. He squeezed his eyes shut then opened them quickly as he listed to one side, nearly falling over for his trouble. It was then he spied the first aid kit, haphazardly discarded by his side. It was awkward undoing the catch with his bandaged hands, but he managed it, extracting a little packet, and returning the box to its spot. He tore the packet open with his teeth and dropped two of small tablets into his coffee, waiting sixty seconds for them to dissolve, then drinking the now bitter brew down. Moving clumsily, he crabbed backward until he could lean against the nearest console while he waited for the stimulant to take effect.  
  
It was ten minutes later that the three workers slammed shut the access panel in Airwolf's belly and made their way back across the inner chamber. "One chore done," Mike Rivers was saying, plying a towel to his greasy hands. "I just wish we had time to test the deployment system before we have to rely on combat mode."  
  
Jo tossed back a strand of long blonde hair, now stringy with sweat. "The computer diagnostic I ran shows every system functional. There's no reason we should have any trouble."  
  
Mike struck a pose, nose in the air, hand pressed against his heart. "A good pilot prefers hands-on information, thank you very much."  
  
"Your hands-on still has grease on," Jo pointed out, taping the oily spot on his black shirt."  
  
He glanced down, looking disgusted. "Don't suppose you do laundry?"  
  
She smiled sweetly. "Sorry. I send mine out."  
  
Saint John stopped to look back at the helicopter, light brows drawn together in a scowl. "I wish we had a chance to replace that windshield. Epsilon Guard has been en route for the rendezvous for the last forty-five minutes; if we don't use the secondary turbos, we're going to be late, but I don't know if I trust that epoxy to hold the temporary plates."  
  
Jo sighed. "We'll just have to take the chance. The plan calls for us to be first in. I'll let Jason know if we fall behind the timetable."  
  
By then they had reached the injured man, who raised his head at their approach. Although fever still burned in his cheeks, there was new awareness in his eyes; they glittered brightly -- too brightly? -- with cognizance of his surroundings and fresh determination. "My goodness!" Jo exclaimed, smiling at the sight. "You look great! All that from an hour's sleep and one cup of coffee?"  
  
String's lips twitched in what might have passed for a smile had it been less brief. Supporting his rib cage with one arm, he swung his legs under and pushed himself to his knees. Saint John placed an arm under his shoulders and brought him the rest of the way up. "Idiot," he growled exasperatedly, waiting until the younger man had braced himself against the computer console before releasing him. "What are you, suicidal all of a sudden?"  
  
Jo glanced at him puzzledly. "What are you talking about, Saint John?"  
  
As String stood, the forgotten packet had fallen out of his lap. Mike, seeing it hit, picked it up with a frown. "How much of the Benzedrine did you take?" he asked, holding it between thumb and forefinger. "Not more than one tab?"  
  
Jo's jaw dropped with understanding. "String, you took drugs?" she charged disapprovingly. "I didn't think uppers were your style. And on top of a concussion...!"  
  
He ignored her with the easy contempt of one who is used to going his own way no matter what anyone thinks. "Is it time to go?" he asked his brother, who was studying him critically.  
  
Saint John nodded. "We're ready. You be careful," he advised brusquely. "The Bennies and the morphine will keep you going for a while, but your judgment is going to lean toward the reckless, and when they quit, you're going to come down hard and fast."  
  
"Not your concern," the younger man stated flatly, testing out a deeper breath than he'd been able to take so far. "I'll deal with it." That breath caught in his throat when the older man took his arm in a crushing grip and gave him a shake.  
  
"It is my concern," Saint John snapped angrily back. "If you crash in the middle of a firefight, you'll take me down with you. You remember the lessons we both learned in-country."  
  
They stared at each other stonily for a long moment, two unyielding predators girded for battle. Then String nodded once, and Saint John released him, his expression plainly worried but accepting of his brother's word. They both turned to look at Mike Rivers when the blond pilot cleared his throat loudly.  
  
"Which brings us to another little point," he began, his tones light, his expression obstinate. "I don't recall us discussing the matter of who is going inside. I know you're determined, Saint John, but you certainly don't think you're the best choice to go in with him?" He directed the second biting statement at Stringfellow Hawke, who glared.  
  
"Do you think you can stop me from finding Dom?" The words were a low growl full of menace, the younger Hawke's stance weight forward, ready for instant battle.  
  
Rivers' reply was aborted in his mouth when Saint John touched him on the arm. "String is coming with me," the nominal team leader stated flatly. "You'll be needed in Airwolf. We're going to need a solid diversion going in, and if Horn has air support, Airwolf is going to need to be combat ready." So is her pilot, hung silently, causing Mike to hesitate.  
  
"I ... don't like it," he said slowly, gaze flicking to Stringfellow, the implication being that Saint John would have no backup inside the mansion. "But if that's the way you want it...?"  
  
The elder Hawke smiled. "Don't worry, Mike, String and I worked as a team for a long time. We know the ropes and we both have a personal stake in the game."  
  
Stringfellow said nothing, but his blue eyes both acknowledged his brother's statement and reiterated the challenge -- any attempt to stop him would not be met without violent resistance.  
  
Five more minutes saw all four clad in flight suits and ready to go. Jo, still miffed at the earlier rebuff, watched irritatedly while String laced his boots while moving his upper body as little as possible. "I still think you should wait for us here," she said with a huff. "You're not going to last long if you keep moving around."  
  
String, his spirits rising exponentially with the amount of drug entering his bloodstream and the nearness of battle, smiled, jerking his thumb at the waiting Rivers. "Isn't that his line?" he asked blithely.  
  
Mike snorted and lightly tapped Saint John's long jaw. "Not me. I figure, anybody who slugs like that is someone I want with me, not tagging along where he can't do any good." When Saint John growled something uncomplimentary, he grinned and turned back to the waiting Stringfellow. "What can you tell us about Horn's setup? How well defended is it?"  
  
The younger Hawke frowned, eyes narrowed in concentration. "We couldn't see too much going in, but I got the impression the estate is well-armed and fortified. I only saw about a half-dozen men, but there were some patrolling the perimeter, and I heard a lot of people moving around one wing of the house -- probably a barracks arrangement. Our big problem is going to be getting through to Dom and Michael before they can kill them."  
  
Rivers' raised both hands in a nonchalant gesture. "There is no problem that can't be resolved with the proper application of superior fire power."  
  
"As long as we're firing at the right people," Saint John agreed, slapping his friend on the back.  
  
Santini leaned against the helicopter, biting her lip hard. "I don't like it, guys. You two are going to have to wade through a whole army without backup. Once you're inside, Mike and I won't be able to help you -- we'll have our hands full flying Airwolf."  
  
"Epsilon Guard will be coming in only a few minutes after we make our first run," Mike pointed out, zipping his own flight suit up to the neck. "They're going in on a full scale search-and-destroy with two choppers, Zebra Squad hitting Larchmont Field in a simultaneous assault. My advice is to leave the troops to them -- you concentrate on being as inconspicuous as possible."  
  
"While trying to stay on your feet." This last Jo snapped tartly at Stringfellow, whose breathing was increasing in tempo even as his eyes burned brighter than the fever could account for. She climbed behind the engineering console and busied herself with another computer test, worry evident over her simmering resentment.  
  
Saint John, more practical natured and possessing the objectivity of too much previous experience, accepted his brother's pharmaceutical assistance as fait accompli and let it slide with his single warning. "We'll be going in hit and run," he decided, tapping his fingers thoughtfully on the armor plate. "Like that commando raid we staged north of Kohnieh, remember?"  
  
String nodded. "With the rest of the squad furnishing a diversionary frontal attack. Should work." He strapped a leather holster around his lean waist, then looked around. "Where's my gun?"  
  
Mike Rivers, at Saint John's side, hesitated then drew from his waistband the Browning he'd confiscated earlier. He tendered it butt first. "Take this one. There's extra ammo clips in a box under Airwolf's back seat."  
  
Hawke accepted the weapon without comment, nestling it in his bandaged right hand, making sure he could slip his finger through the trigger guard. He stared from the gun to the man, his narrow-eyed gaze more expressive than he generally allowed to show.  
  
Mike, interpreting the confused gratitude accurately, grinned. "Just be careful which way you point it this time," he admonished amiably. He reached into the open cockpit, patting the flight helmet sitting on the copilot's seat. "Remember, today the good guys are going to be the ones in the black hats."  
  
*** 


	30. Chapter 30

The sound of the shot was loud in the confined space, the thud of Angelica's body hitting the floor actually gruesome. Shock reigned supreme for long seconds, then Amy began to scream, hiding in the corner behind the radio and covering her face. Michael, the next to recover, crossed the room in a single pounce, snatching the rifle from Horn's limp fingers. The industrialist didn't notice; he sank to his knees by his daughter's body, lifting it gently. Her head hung backwards, the bloody hole in her temple partially concealed by the matting of blonde hair. Her eyes were open, still calm, her face retaining the peace it had found in her final few minutes of life. Horn closed her lids with the tips of his fingers, too stunned to even register the power shift.  
  
"She was the only thing I've ever loved," he said to the room at large, touching the long platinum hair that fanned across his thigh. "The only thing in the world."  
  
"You were playing God with other peoples' children," Dominic said with a hard, unrelenting edge to his voice. "You took Newman's daughter, you took my son. You paid with your own."  
  
Horn whipped toward him at that, light eyes dry and filling with cold hate. "Your son," he spat viciously. "He's hardly your son any more, is he? Your assassin, perhaps, thanks to Anastasia. And him." He pointed a shaking hand in Michael's direction, and Santini lifted his head higher until he could see the agent.  
  
"What does he mean?" he demanded, achieving a sitting position only with difficulty. "Come here, honey." That last was to Amy, who was cowering in the corner. The child unballed herself and crept to his side, letting him put an arm around her.  
  
"Is she dead?" the girl asked, pointing a shaking hand at the motionless Angelica Horn.  
  
"She's dead." Dom gave her a hug, turning them both so that she was looking at Briggs rather than the corpse. "Try to put it out of your mind. You can stare at your Uncle Michael instead, okay?"  
  
That won a wan smile; despite her tender years, the girl was obviously not adverse to that particular suggestion. "'kay. Uncle Dom?" She hesitated, peeking up at him from beneath the veil of her curls. "Did that man hurt your face?"  
  
Dominic froze for a moment, his fingers going to the puckered scars leading from his neck up onto his jaw. "Yes, honey. Does it scare you?"  
  
She shook her head, squirming closer. "I like you anyway."  
  
The girl seemed calmer than expected and quite content to lean against him although her large eyes were fixed adoringly on Michael. Dom patted her once, the innocent candor causing him to blink rapidly for several seconds to clear his eyes before he turned his penetrating scrutiny back on the standing Archangel. "I asked you what he meant about String," he repeated in a harsh voice.  
  
When Michael maintained a guilty silence, Horn set his daughter's body on the floor, and stood, handsome face twisted with malicious knowledge. "Here's a riddle for you, Santini, one that rivals even that of the Sphinx'. What could possibly make a man attack his own father -- or as close as he's ever going to get -- even after that reasonable facsimile has been miraculously resurrected from the dead?" He didn't wait for a response but plunged on through gritted teeth, "Answer: the belief that that 'father' was no more than a chimera -- a base illusion created to deceive the unwary. But is that belief original?" Horn waved both hands, his own grief making him oblivious to the 7.62mm assault rifle aimed in his direction, or the finger that twitched yearningly on the trigger. "Hardly. It would have to be put into his mind by someone else -- someone he trusted. Someone who was willing to let you die to prevent his having to give up an insignificant piece of inanimate hardware."  
  
"So String couldn't trade Airwolf for me even if he wanted to," Dom interpreted in a low voice.  
  
Michael's chin jutted forward, his air still full of guilt but also defiant, expecting censure and flying before it at once. "I did what I thought was right, Dominic; there were lives at stake." When Santini did not answer at once, he shifted his gaze to a point over the older man's left shoulder, no longer meeting his eyes, the pain in his own too evident to ignore. "I knew Hawke would believe me if I told him you were an impostor. He ... trusted me enough for that."  
  
Dom regarded him steadily for a long time, while Horn glowered at them both, breathing hard. "Obviously, the art of manipulation isn't limited to the enemy," the businessman grated, twisting his knife home. "Can't rely on anyone, can you, Santini."  
  
If Horn was expecting the pilot to retaliate once the facts were made known -- as Michael obviously was -- he was doomed to disillusionment. Santini's craggy face creased even further in a scowl though not one of rancor. "I think I understand," he said at long last. "You took the decision out of String's hands altogether, didn't you?"  
  
Briggs twitched one shoulder, his mustache bristling obstinately. "I'd do it again, too," he said in a calmer voice. "I'm sorry, Dominic, but I had to prevent Airwolf from falling into enemy hands even if it meant your life. Or Stringfellow's. Or mine." When there was another silence even longer than the first, Briggs shot him a sharp look. "What?" he asked dryly. "No recriminations? None of the Italian curses you never seem to run out of? No cracks about my heart of whitewashed marble?"  
  
"Thanks."  
  
Archangel smiled sourly, not accepting the statement at face value. "Thanks? For what? Setting you up like a sacrificial goat?"  
  
The gray head shook once, dismissing the statement. "For thinking about String."  
  
Archangel gaped uncomprehending until Horn shifted his feet restlessly. He gestured for the man to sit, an order that was summarily refused. "I don't think you'd shoot your only remaining hostage," the industrialist challenged.  
  
Michael shrugged with pseudo-nonchalance. "Kill you? Maybe -- maybe not ... yet." His lips drew back, baring his white, even teeth. "Ever see a man without knee caps?" he asked conversationally, deliberately checking that the safety on the rifle was in the off position. They stared at each other, each man taking the other's measure, then Horn grunted and sat down next to his daughter's body. Michael appropriated her fallen gun and stuffed it into the waistband of his trousers, the action making him sway dangerously.  
  
"I think you better sit down, too," Santini suggested, backing slightly with the child so he could lean against the radio stand.  
  
"I think you've got a point." Michael righted the fallen chair and sank into it, rifle trained on Horn. From that position he could address the pilot without taking his eye off his captive. "Perhaps it's me who doesn't understand," he said warily, returning to the previous subject. "Are you saying you don't blame me for almost forcing Hawke to let you die to protect 'a piece of inanimate hardware'?"  
  
The Italian cleared his throat, gruff voice less harsh than before. "I know the full reason why you did what you did. I agree with it."  
  
"I told you the full reason," Briggs countered with a wary look.  
  
Santini leaned his head back, tilting it so he could see the agent better. "Not completely why. It was to protect Airwolf -- but it was also to protect String." He waggled his right hand in the expansive gesture so familiar to all who knew him. "In your own way."  
  
To his credit Archangel did not pretend to misunderstand now that it was laid out before them. The muscles in his jaw relaxed, an old compassion rising in his expression. "Maybe I think he's had to make enough of these type of decisions -- trading one life for the other, feeling responsible for the death of someone he loves. No one should have to carry around that much of the past."  
  
Dominic nodded sadly, the two for once in perfect harmony. "I don't think the boy could handle any more ghosts, either. He's carrying too many now." He sighed and scratched his jaw, fingers rasping on the twenty-four hour growth of heavy Italian beard shading it. "Toughest kid I ever met -- maybe even tougher than Saint John ever was, an' that's saying something. But String is a lot more brittle. Hit him in the right place and you can crack him right down the middle."  
  
"As with anyone," Michael stated more to himself than the other.  
  
Santini sighed again. "Yeah, but String's been hit a little more often than most people. That time after he got through with him ..." He jerked a thumb in Horn's direction, his loathing affecting the industrialist not at all. "... he was sick for days and wouldn't let anyone near him. It was almost as bad as when that Russky doctor made him believe Saint John was back. He blocked himself off on that stupid mountain for weeks. Then that thing with Mace and Colonel Vidor...." He stopped to stare at the top of Amy's head, swallowing heavily before he could go on. "Kid's passed limits no one ever should have to reach, starting with trading Saint John in Viet Nam fifteen years ago."  
  
Archangel hefted the rifle into a more comfortable position across his lap. "Right or wrong," he admitted reluctantly, slumping with fatigue, "I wasn't willing to let him live with another decision like that even above protecting Airwolf. Hawke won't understand and he'll never forgive me, but I don't regret what I've done."  
  
Santini laughed; it was an odd laugh without humor but also without despair, as if he was seeing hope for the first time. "When I woke up yesterday I only had one goal in my mind -- one thing a useless old cripple like me had left to live for -- revenge on the man who killed String." He looked at Horn dispassionately for once, like a scientist examining a particularly interesting species of mold. "If I was looking for a payback, fate chose a better one than I ever could have."  
  
"Revenge is a lousy motive for living anyway," Michael pointed out, pressing one hand against his abdomen, then wincing. "I hope that's not all I left Hawke."  
  
Dom nodded sadly but with more purpose than he'd thus far shown. "That was all I had left. Now I want to see String again and know he's all right. I've a feeling the kid is going to need even a useless old cripple around for a while longer." He bit his lip. "How is he? He looked pretty beat up when I saw him."  
  
Michael waved one hand, his own pain and weariness written plainly for all to see. "I don't know what they did to him after he was taken out of the cell, but except for some bad burns on his hands, he wasn't too bad off when I saw him. He's come through worse."  
  
"Considering what he's gone through in the past, that's not exactly reassuring," the older man retorted worriedly. "If he got free of their control I sure hope he has enough sense to stay out of this trap."  
  
Michael twisted slightly until he could watch the patiently waiting troops displayed on the monitors to his right. "Personally, I wouldn't mind seeing him right now ... with half a battalion as backup. Horn's men aren't going to risk blasting the door down with him inside, but they aren't going to let us walk out of here, either. Without a break, we could be sitting here for a long time."  
  
*** 


	31. Chapter 31

From without, Airwolf in flight was a half-seen shadow, a hole in the sky. A silent predator, she cut through the rarified air at twenty thousand feet, even the bowshock of her passage blunted by her aerodynamic design. Within, she was less silent; the resonance of her great engines could be sensed even through the sealed cabin, the steady whup-whup of her rotors and the more-felt-than-heard strumming of her turbines were powerful enough to disturb conversation without the radios in the padded black helmets.  
  
In the flight commander's seat, Mike Rivers nudged the stick, expertly sending the helicopter into the gentle glide pattern that would drop their altitude from twenty thousand feet to ten thousand in less than a minute, at the same time bleeding off speed and power to increase maneuverability in the thicker atmosphere. "Looks like we got away with the patch job we did on the windshield," he commented to the three other people cohabiting the cabin. "I had my doubts about that epoxy Jason came up with holding the plates in place above low speeds."  
  
Jo, occupying the engineering station behind the pilot, called up the specialized diagnostics program on her board for the third time since they'd taken off, slender fingers playing across the keyboard in a rapid tattoo. "Computer shows continued equalized stress on all surfaces; no change in internal atmospheric composition. That epoxy is doing a good job. Thank heavens."  
  
Mike leaned forward to tap the steel saucer covering one of the holes a large-caliber bullet had punched in Airwolf's windshield. "I'll be happier when we install the new armored glass. NASA designed or not, I don't feel comfortable sitting behind Super Glue at Mach 1."  
  
The woman's voice was a little tinny through the radio but still managed to convey a cheerfulness in her teasing. "What happened to your trusting nature, Mike? Losing faith in technology?"  
  
"Been watching too many commercials," the blond pilot volleyed, leveling off their glide. "I know how tricky a good P.R. man can be. Especially if you're the sucker type. Right, Saint John?"  
  
Strapped into the pull-down jumpseat next to the engineering console, Saint John Hawke started out of the reverie he'd sunk into upon takeoff, and stared quizzically down his long nose at the back of his colleague's helmet. "Who are you calling gullible, Rivers? In case you've forgotten, I wasn't the one who ended up shelling out five hundred bucks for dance lessons just because some girl you met at the beach said she likes to tango."  
  
"Annabelle was a wonderful dancer," Rivers returned, lifting his chin haughtily into the air. "Besides, how was I supposed to know she owned the studio?"  
  
"And wasn't it Collette with the come-hither eyes that talked you into spending the weekend in Cancun, then broke it to you once you'd paid for the trip that it was one of those land-buying deals?" Hawke pursued relentlessly.  
  
"Collette was worth the money," the other pilot sighed, blue eyes taking on a dreamy appearance.  
  
"And didn't--?"  
  
"Okay, okay, you made your point!" Mike cut him off with a raised hand immediately returned to the collective. His boyish face wore a chagrined expression, tiny lines around his eyes giving them a merry aspect. "I told you, you can never trust anyone with a good P.R. man."  
  
"Or woman," Jo giggled, sharing an amused look with Saint John. Their friend's vulnerability to a pretty face was legendary.  
  
"We're getting close," interrupted the heretofore silent fourth person in the co-pilot's seat. "Switch to stealth and whisper modes. I didn't see one, but I'm sure Horn has radar as part of his defense system."  
  
Mike glanced at him, but little of the man's profile was visible except a swatch of white gauze against flushed skin, and one very blue, fever bright eye fixed on the ground below. His own expression hardened at the order, but he clamped his full lips together, then replied evenly, "Whisper and stealth modes engaged five minutes ago. As far as the ground is concerned, we're invisible."  
  
"Radar absorption rate at ninety-seven percent," Jo recited, reading numbers off a gauge to her right. "You're right, String -- he has a powerful radar located somewhere off the grounds ... about one mile to the west, judging by the Doppler effect."  
  
"We've had quite a bit of experience on surveillance jobs, String," Saint John mentioned mildly, able to see even less of his brother than could Mike. "How are you feeling?"  
  
The younger Hawke didn't answer. A certain amount of pain had filtered back into his taut features as the morphine's narcotic effect bowed before the Benzedrine, the sweat of exertion beading his brow. He carefully kept his face averted from either Saint John or Mike, either of whom were in a position to abort the mission should they judge him unfit. He sat rigidly for nearly sixty seconds, then leaned forward alertly. He supported himself against the glass with one bandaged hand, using the other to point at the sprawling, two-story estate situated in the center of what appeared to be a walled garden, the greenery looking out of place in the midst of the barren landscape. "That's it. I recognize the gardens. Make a sweep from this altitude. Jo, begin thermal, magnetic, and visual scans, and cross-reference them on a topographical map. I also want a report on any energy emissions across the spectrum leading in from the drop-off point."  
  
"Running scans," Jo returned crisply. "Results should be coming through on your monitor momentarily." She tapped Saint John on the arm, leaning to the side to allow him access to the computer enhanced image unfolding on the color screen, a duplicate of the scene appearing on the front monitor between Mike and String.  
  
"There's a stream bed to the south; looks like it's deep enough to take Airwolf in almost to the wall," Mike remarked, glancing from the screen to his surroundings with quick moves of his head.  
  
Jo touched tongue to her lips thoughtfully. "I agree. Radar detection is no problem but IR is picking up a low-level laser scan exactly twenty-one feet inside the wall. Just a single beam -- backup alarm, probably."  
  
"We get to run twenty feet and crawl two," Saint John said with a nonchalant gesture. "No problem."  
  
"Thermals are showing one armed guard walking the wall," Jo went on, "four more at equidistant stations outside and at approximately twenty feet off the ground. Either they've learned how to levitate, or they're standing on some type of platform."  
  
"Tell the computer to correlate the lines of sight of these two sentries," Saint John said, using one finger to indicate the two men guarding the approach from the south. "I want to know if there are any blind spots in their visual range."  
  
She nodded and tapped several commands on her keyboard, a conical projection replacing the topographical map. Two lines swept from the representations of the men, nearly but not quite intersecting farther afield. "Bingo! Once you leave the stream bed, you can head east then north again and they'll never know you were there."  
  
"Show me a magnetic," String ordered, staring hard at the screen. She complied, and he nodded, swollen jaw tightening. "Just as I thought. The area immediately surrounding the wall is booby-trapped, fortunately with metallic mines or we wouldn't have even known they were there until too late."  
  
Saint John, too, studied the new map through narrowed eyes. "You see the pattern, String? Standard paradigm. If we can locate one mine we can pick our way through the field following the safety pattern."  
  
The younger man nodded curtly, shifting in his seat in a vain attempt at easing the growing discomfort of his stiffening body. "It's only a few yards deep. Shouldn't cost us any time."  
  
Jo restored the topographical map, laying the magnetic scan over it. "Looks like the first mine you'll come to is exactly eighteen inches from that big rock and.... Why don't I just print this out for you," she suggested, again activating the keyboard. A thin slip of paper emerged from a slot by Saint John's hand; he tore it off, looked at it closely and stuffed it into his breast pocket.  
  
"This should do it. Next part is up to you, Mike."  
  
Rivers grinned, again steering Airwolf into a glide, this time traveling due south. Reaching a position several miles from the estate, he realigned on a northern heading, dropping the craft to ground level. It was a matter of seconds before the stream bed was located. Airwolf navigated the shallow canyon at a clip, Mike keeping the speed down to prevent the rotors from throwing up a dust cloud that might have given them away. A shallow rivulet no more than two feet wide was the only indication of water; the banks and surrounding land was arid, spotted here and there with dry, brownish vegetation.  
  
"No longer picking up radar," Jo reported, large eyes locked on her screens. "Reaching closest vantage ... now."  
  
On her mark, Mike throttled back, bringing the gunship to a halt. Without lowering the landing gear, he held position at a hover, no more than a foot above the slow running water. "This is as far as we go," he said, tossing a glance over his shoulder at Saint John, then a briefer one at String. "You hoof it the rest of the way."  
  
The two Hawkes unsnapped their harnesses, then String pushed open the left side door, the pneumatic seal breaking with a hiss. He stepped to the ground but no further, pulling the Browning out of its leather holster and nestling it in his bandaged right hand; a quick patdown of the pockets of his silver flight suit confirmed the supplementary clips he'd stored there. Still in his seat, Saint John twisted his torso, reaching back into the rear storage compartment and selected a compact Ingram MAC-11 machine pistol from the mini-arsenal there, and extra box magazines, handing them out to his brother. He hesitated and brought out a polished Barnett crossbow, a deadly and silent commando weapon perfectly suited for the clandestine assault they were planning. A small quiver of bolts was slipped across his broad shoulders, a satchel shoved into Stringfellow's hands, then he too was out of the helicopter, joining String on the moist earth and accepting back the machine pistol.  
  
"Remember," Mike called over the engines, "you have exactly eight minutes to get into position before I start blowing the front of the building to kingdom come. In eighteen minutes Epsilon Guard hits Larchmont airport and this estate simultaneously with everything they have."  
  
"Got it!" Saint John saluted Mike, grinned at Jo, and resealed the door, then followed his already departed brother upstream. Although the banks were high enough to conceal even a tall man, the two maintained a cautious crouch, making very sure that their heads remained below the rim at all times. Their boots sloshed through inch deep mud for several hundred feet, scattering several lizards and not a few winged insects who'd sought out the only water source in the arid territory. Moving rapidly, they finally reached a bend that marked the point they were to leave the safety of the gully.  
  
Saint John touched the younger man on the arm, pointing to the right. "From here we head east," he said in a low voice. "Ninety yards to the jagged shaped boulder, then north again. If we stay low we'll be under the line of sight of the spotters on those raised platforms."  
  
String followed his brother up to level ground and wrapped one arm around his midsection as support, then assumed a rapid, crouched lope that easily kept up with the other man's longer stride. On either side, the rough land performed a crude wave pattern, miniature hills and galleys rising no more than a few feet from the desert floor to occlude the horizon from view. "Don't forget about the guy walking the wall," he said, breathing increasing slightly in tempo. He pointed to the north and the line of sienna-streaked boulders rising decoratively out of the baked earth. "We'll be in range of him as soon as we pass those rocks."  
  
The elder man hefted the crossbow a little higher; the steel bolt glinted ominously in the sun and he hurriedly dropped it back to his side. "He won't have a chance to raise an alarm. Our only concern will be making it over the wall before one of those perimeter lookouts decides to check over his shoulder."  
  
"You just make sure that guard falls inside the wall," the brown-haired pilot reminded him. "If he lands on a mine, we're through before we start."  
  
Once again falling silent, the two soldiers covered the remaining ground to the rock boundary previously pointed out, flattening themselves against the near face. Stringfellow peeked around the side, ducking back immediately. "Single guard, no backup," he reported, attempting to take several shallow breaths without moving his ribs any more than he had to.  
  
Saint John shooed him back, then braced himself and stepped boldly out of cover. The guard saw him at once and made the disastrous mistake of allowing himself to be surprised into immobility for the single fatal instant it took the Viet Nam vet to bring up the crossbow. There was a flash of sun on steel faster than the eye could follow, leaving the guard staring stupidly at the six-inch long tail of arrow projecting from his upper chest directly over the heart. Without uttering a sound, the man toppled backward into the hidden garden.  
  
"Good shot." String slapped his savagely smiling brother on the arm and stepped past him to the very edge of the rock border. "Let's see that map of the minefield again." The two bent their heads over the black and white printout, then String nodded and scrutinized their surroundings, calculating distances through narrowed eyes. Satisfied with location, he produced a jackknife from his pocket and lowered himself clumsily, sliding the blade into the earth one foot ahead of his resting knees. He felt around carefully for a few seconds, then froze. "Got it," he reported, closing the knife and restoring it to his pocket. "First mine. Follow me."  
  
Walking single file, the two men picked their way through the twenty foot ring banding the wall, treading carefully according to the map Jo had given them. Fifteen seconds later they had safely reached the base of the wall and were staring up at the top, eight feet from the ground. Saint John Hawke ran his fingers down the rough gray cement, a speculative expression on his planed features. "Horn was obviously relying on the electronic and human surveillance for security; this was probably built by the original owners only to keep animals out of the garden."  
  
"Then it won't slow us down," his brother murmured, although with a touch of dismay at the tall, solid barrier they had to cross. He rubbed his ribs once, glanced at his wrapped hands, and sighed, visibly bracing himself for the new strains this would put on his wounds. He tensed, took one step backwards to get a small start ... then stopped when Saint John snagged his arm in a tight vise.  
  
"Not that way," the older man advised, releasing him at once. He threaded his fingers together making a stirrup, then bent his knees, a position that would allow him to catapult the lighter man easily up onto the wall. He stopped the fiery and immediate objection with an impatient gesture. "We'll salve your damaged pride later," he said curtly. "And make sure there's no glass up there before you grab on."  
  
String glared at him, but obediently accepted the assistance, and was soon lying belly flat eight feet above the ground. He scanned the interior briefly, then reached down and received the weapons and satchel. Saint John got a brief running start and clambered up next to him, then shimmied around to drop lightly off the other side; he landed cat-like in the soft green grass some yards from the sentry's body. String landed next to him less gracefully, having to muffle a choked cry when ribs and ankle both gave way.  
  
"My kid brother, the masochistic stubborn mule," Saint John growled under his breath, taking the younger man by the arm and pulling him gently up. Louder, "You all right?"  
  
String nodded, breath coming faster than before. He freed his arm with a yank and limped forward, only his lips moving as he counted silently to nineteen. "Laser alarm should be right about there," he said, drawing in the air an invisible line across their path. "Here's where we crawl."  
  
This piece of ground too was soon traversed. The two allowed for a margin of several yards before standing and resuming their trek toward the house, moving stealthily from tree to hillock. Within minutes they were crouching behind a fragrant lilac bush in sight of their goal, a steel security door set into the rear of the building.  
  
Saint John glanced at his watch. "Thirty seconds before Mike starts in with the fireworks." He dropped the crossbow carelessly behind the bush and unslung the machine pistol, injecting a shell. His brother made no reply, simply gripped the butt of his Browning automatic tighter, using his thumb to flick off the safety. They tensed....  
  
It was Airwolf's distinctive scream they heard first. Like a black eagle she swooped out of the sun, chain guns chattering, missile rack exposed and ready to go. She riddled the front of the building then swiveled to strafe the cars lined neatly on the gravel drive; one gas tank after another went up, the explosions adding to the cacophony, the fires filling the air with dirty smoke. This was followed by loud shouts from the front of the estate and the sound of returned fire.  
  
"That's our cue," Saint John announced, leaving the cloak of the bush and leading the way to the door. He plastered himself against one side of it, keen gray eyes scanning the terrain for signs of danger. String followed him at a rapid limp; trusting his brother to watch for guards, he dipped into the satchel he carried, extracting a lump of what appeared to be white putty. Proficient fingers shaped the powerful explosive into a flat charge that adhered without assistance to the door. He stuck a small thermometer shaped detonator into the approximate center of the charge and slapped his brother's arm.  
  
"Four ..." he rapped, retreating several yards. "... three...." On "One," the plastique went up, emitting a sharp, "BANG!" and a nearly unnoticeable puff of smoke. However unprepossessing the detonation might be, the effect was everything that could be asked for. The solid steel door shuddered on its frame, warping inward and rupturing, hanging forlornly on what was once its hinges. A well-placed kick finished the job and allowed the invaders access to a short corridor that opened into a kitchen area.  
  
"Which way, String?" Saint John Hawke asked, sweeping the deserted kitchen with the gun though not having to fire.  
  
Using his brother's cover to reach the door, Stringfellow peeked around the jamb, Browning held stiffly forward in both hands. "Michael and I were kept in one of the basements. There's a whole system down there -- labs, medical facilities -- everything."  
  
Saint John joined him at the door, covering the opposite direction. "Looks like stairs this way." He leaped out of the kitchen, making his way down the carpeted passage, String at his heels, attention focussed on their drag. They'd already reached the stairwell when two olive-uniformed men appeared around a bend at a dead run. The double-take the first did would have been ludicrous under other circumstances; his mouth was describing an "O" when Stringfellow shot him, catching him full in the center of the chest and dropping him in a sloppy heap. The second had already prescribed a neat circle back the way he'd come when the MAC-11 announced its presence with a flat crack. Caught by several grains of steel-jacketed lead, the lifeless body flew nearly ten feet before skidding to a stop on the carpet, the trooper's anonymous brown eyes fixed in stunned surprise on the ceiling.  
  
Not waiting for further company, the two men made their way to the next level down; they stepped cautiously into the corridor then stopped. Saint John, tensed and alert, peered in each direction dubiously. "Which way?" he demanded in a low voice, keeping his gun leveled.  
  
String wiped his flushed face on the sleeve of his flightsuit, blinking the sweat out of his eyes. He too glanced up and down the corridor, eyes visibly duller than they had been back at the Lair; the drugs he'd taken were obviously wearing off rapidly. "I don't know. I ... don't think they brought me down this way; Dom was nearer the front of the building."  
  
The older man cast him a single worried glance, one hand coming up hesitantly as though to touch him, then lowering without completing the gesture. Instead, Saint John Hawke dipped into another of the myriad pockets in his uniform, this time pulling out a cigarette-pack sized radio. He raised it to his mouth, activating the on button with his thumb. "Airwolf, come in."  
  
"Airwolf," Jo's light soprano returned promptly. "Go ahead, Saint John."  
  
"We're inside on the first sub-level, but there seems to be a whole complex down here. My guess is it's as large as the mansion above and at least two stories deep. We're going to need help to locate the prisoners."  
  
"Stand by, Saint John," Mike said, his strong baritone muffled by his helmet. "I'll make a high pass while Jo runs a scan for life form patterns." There was a pause during which the two Hawke's could hear the sounds of tapping computer keys through the open line. Finally Jo came back on.  
  
"Sorry, boys, can't narrow it much for you. The scans are coming back a bit garbled; the area must be chock full of electrical equipment to send back this much interference. I am getting a lot of people moving around on the lower levels. Looks like most of them are heading for the surface -- extra guards, maybe?"  
  
Saint John exchanged a troubled look with his brother, both acutely aware of how short their time was. "What about in this wing-- Stand by." He broke off at the sound of approaching footsteps, both men diving into the nearest room, which was fortunately empty. The steps thundered past and up the stairs, and only then did Saint John again raise the radio. "What about in this wing?" he repeated. "Can you give us anything in the immediate area?"  
  
There was another pause. "Solitary figure twenty feet down on your left; two, twelve feet beyond that; one more directly across. That should take you to the junction."  
  
"Acknowledged. Out." Saint John restowed the radio while Stringfellow checked the hall; it was empty. He gestured and the two stepped back into the white tiled corridor cautiously, approaching their first target on cat's feet. They took up stances on either side of the heavy wooden door occupying the position Jo had indicated. A signal passed between them, then Saint John rested his weight on his right foot, kicking out savagely with his left. The door flew open, revealing a youthful female sitting at a computer terminal. At their precipitous entrance she leaped to her feet with a little scream, her chair tumbling over with a crash.  
  
"Don't shoot me!" she gulped, wide green eyes locked on the barrels targeting the center of her well-endowed chest.  
  
String strode across the room, snagging the collar of her sweater and yanking her closer until she was staring horrifiedly into his cold blue eyes from a distance of no more than six inches. "Where are the hostages?" he growled.  
  
She gulped again, her mouth moving several seconds before she could make a sound. "I-I-I don't know!" At his menacing snarl, she used both hands to point to the neat skirt and now-wrinkled sweater she wore, managing to look even more frightened. "I really don't! I'm just a clerk! I transcribe Dr. Zarkov's notes! Please don't kill me!"  
  
String studied her for another moment, then released her. She sighed with beginning relief, the sound transforming into a grunt when his fist landed precisely over the knot of nerves in her jaw, rendering her instantly unconscious. "Let's try the next one," he said, immediately losing interest. "Someone here has to know where Dom is."  
  
Unfortunately, the next door was less productive than the first. The duo burst in to find two armed troopers busily activating a bank of monitors connected to what appeared to be some type of defensive system. Well trained, the enemy soldiers were leveling weapons even as the Hawke's opened up with their own; within seconds the air was filled with the smell of cordite, and two uniformed strangers lay dead on the floor.  
  
"Strike two," Saint John rumbled. "Wanna go for three?"  
  
They tried the third door Jo had listed, finding the room empty. String swept back into the corridor, forehead furrowed with thought. "They didn't use a normal door on the cell Michael and I were held in," the younger Hawke whispered. "It was a sliding panel with an electronic locking device. I remember passing a whole row of them when they took me to the lab."  
  
"They might not have thought an old man and a little girl warranted the extra security," Saint John murmured back, right behind him. "Neither one would have appeared as much of a threat to a paramilitary organization like this one."  
  
Stringfellow, bowing to the logic of this statement, tested the next unlocked room in the corridor, then stopped suddenly and turned back. "What little girl?" he demanded. His eyes widened then, taking on that far away aspect that had so far indicated returning memory. "Was her name Amy?"  
  
"Amy. Yeah, I think that's what Mike said." Saint John too stopped briefly to glance back at the younger man, who had resumed the search. "Did you see her?"  
  
String nodded, a shadow falling over his expression. "I think so. It was either while they were taking me to the lab or ..." He swallowed hard, face expressionless. "... or just before I saw Dom."  
  
A muscle leaped in Saint John's jaw, eyes gleaming like the steel arrow now residing in a dead guard's heart. "We'll see him again, little brother," he swore, knuckles around the Ingram turning white.  
  
"And we'll pay back the man that took him away from us in the first place," the younger man replied, and the look they shared was full of deadly promise. "That's the last room down here. Let's start working in the other direction. Nothing is going to stop us from finding Dom."  
  
*** 


	32. Chapter 32

Caitlin brought the CHiPs helicopter to a high altitude halt, maintaining a relative position to study their objective critically. At her side, Jason Locke leaned forward against his safety harness to do the same, the Zebra Squad team mirroring their actions from behind. Not that there was much to see. Larchmont Field consisted of a single concrete runway set in a shallow bowl only five kilometers from Horn's estate -- a barren and little used field that had last seen its heyday during the second world war, when it had served as a minor refueling station for civilian transports heading to the west coast. Now it lay abandoned, weeds growing between cracks in the runway, sun glinting brutally off the corrugated roofs of the two hangars along one end of the strip.  
  
"Not exactly impressive," Caitlin commented, swinging the helicopter around a one hundred-eighty degree arc. "It's deserted enough that I can see why Horn wanted Hawke to bring Airwolf out here, but I don't see anything like a welcoming committee."  
  
"As well organized as Horn is reputed to be, he would have something up his sleeve. I just wish I knew what." The black agent pulled out a pair of binoculars and repeated his visual scan, from horizon to horizon and back again. "I have to admit it looks pretty quiet."  
  
"Don't believe it. Horn wouldn't underestimate Hawke -- he's got something planned, ah just know it." She accepted the binoculars Locke proffered and made her own examination of the area, then returned them, again wrapping her fingers around the collective. "I wish we had Airwolf's scanners; I'm not used to going in without information. Got out of the habit."  
  
"Info or not, we're going in." Locke flicked a switch on the communications unit, opening a channel to the large helicopter on their tail. "Locke to Brewster. Ready to deploy your men?"  
  
There was a crackle of static, then a deep, masculine voice answered, "Brewster. Zebra Squad is ready on your word, Sir."  
  
Locke took a last look at the outwardly innocuous airfield, and nodded. "The word is given. We'll follow you down."  
  
The two helicopters settled to earth three-quarters of a mile from their target, each spilling their heavily armed passengers. Twelve members of Zebra Squad, in camouflage gear and like-colored caps, spread out in a fan and began to make their way across the low hills separating them from the field. Jason and Caitlin, both armed with handguns, followed them at a short distance so as to not impede the Squad's highly coordinated drill.  
  
As a unit the incursion team made its approach, the last hundred feet dropping from a crouch to a belly-crawl, and again pausing to inspect the area. The light breeze whipped up loose sand from either side of the strip, even rolling the occasional tumbleweed across the field. Beyond that nothing moved. There was something, however; by listening closely they could now hear the low rumble of a gasoline engine, probably located inside one of the hangars.  
  
"To provide electricity," Caitlin whispered to Locke, who lay prone at her side. "Landing lights, maybe?"  
  
"While incidentally screening the sound of any heartbeats from Airwolf's sensors," Locke mumbled back, finally deigning to undo his tie and collar button. Beyond that, he still wore the brown suit he'd started with that morning, the dust and dirt now staining the expensive material and noticeably detracting from its formerly dapper appearance.  
  
At a signal from Brewster, Zebra Squad gained its feet and cautiously completed the short journey, moving as a series of small teams rather than one large squad. Still nothing moved, not a sound disturbing the tranquility beyond the steadily running motor ... until they were within range of the first hangar.  
  
The first incursion member had actually reached out to touch the metal wall when, without warning, desert sand rose in puffs at scattered intervals, the enemy seeming to rise out of the very ground itself! Shots rang out even before the camouflage blankets had fallen away, Horn's troops cutting down three of Zebra Squad's point men in the first salvo. But the Company had trained its soldiers well for such an occasion, and they responded immediately, throwing down a line of fire that sent the ambushers diving for cover.  
  
"Bet they were insulated against a thermal scan," Locke yelled at Cait as the two joined the forward rush launched by Zebra Squad. He stopped, dropping to one knee and loosing two shots at a barely seen shadow against the nearest hangar. A scream divulged the success of his endeavor, the khaki-clad enemy staggering forward a moment later to collapse in a heap in the dirt.  
  
The same play was being acted out all across the field as the fighting intensified, the sounds of shots and pain and death loud enough to drown out completely the gasoline motor that might have defeated more sophisticated technology. Jason and Caitlin found themselves fighting as a coordinated duo, covering the rear of the first hangar, while Zebra Squad took the rear of the second building and the front of both. One by one, the alarmingly numerous enemy fell before their aggressive onslaught. Then....  
  
"Listen." Caitlin pressed her back against the ancient hangar and held up a hand, stopping Locke from turning the corner into the main fray.  
  
He complied, pausing mid-step, his head cocked to listen. "Another motor," he said, turning to stare at the hangar wall. "In there."  
  
His words preceded by seconds only the loud ripping sound of metal and wood disintegrating under the impact of nearly two-point-five tons of automobile punching its way out. Engine roaring, transmission shrieking its displeasure, a 'stretch' limousine emerged from the new aperture, the wallowing way it accelerated heralding the fact that it was heavier than normal, probably armored.  
  
Caught in the back by a free-swinging board, Jason was thrown several feet to lay wheezing for breath in the dirt. Caitlin, having escaped only by virtue of having been initially far enough from the hangar to catapult herself out of the way of debris, emptied the rest of her clip in the back of the big car, to no avail. "You okay?" she called, abandoning her attack to kneel by the black agent.  
  
He nodded, sitting easily with her help. "That was Morris," he snapped, recovering his breath. "He's getting away!"  
  
She ground her teeth, then slid an arm under his shoulder and pulled. "Looks like he's heading for the main road. We kin still catch him with the chopper if we hurry." She eyed the other inquiringly. "You up to a run?"  
  
White teeth flashed under the black mustache as Locke allowed her to pull him to his feet. "Try and keep up, Deputy." Her answering smile was lost as the two left the security of the now empty hangar and retraced their steps, this time at a flat-out sprint, each determined not to allow their target to escape.  
  
***  
  
Synchronized to the minute with the assault on Larchmont Field only a few miles away, two squads of the elite combat unit known as Epsilon Guard began their own onslaught of Horn's estate, joining the already present rescue team within seconds of their ETA. Jo watched their arrival on Airwolf's computer enhanced imaging system, the pilot part of her admiring the absolute precision with which the two helicopters flew closely aligned so as to confuse enemy radar into showing them as a single blip. She couldn't hear their rotors over Airwolf's own engines, but as they neared she could feel them as a vibration in her back teeth out of tune with the helicopter in which she rode.  
  
"Epsilon Guard making its run," she reported unnecessarily to Mike, who had already cocked his head toward the sky; undoubtedly, he'd felt their approach also even through the continued machine gun fire he'd been using to throw Horn's troops into confusion. He pressed the red button on his stick and a sustained burst disintegrated a large section of the garage, then he strafed the front of the building again, forcing the withdraw of several visible rifle barrels from the windows. The tracer appeared as bright, phosphorous streaks even through the helicopter's darkened glass, and Jo could follow the trail easily even without the small geysers of wood and stone chips that erupted with each impact. The olive-uniformed troopers that had had the misfortune to use that area for cover, scattered like cockroaches under a light, some of them making it no more than a few yards before the tell-tale line of tracer caught them up. Under Jo's horrified gaze, they seemed to dance a little jig before falling like rag dolls to the earth.  
  
She gulped, sickened by the carnage although granting the need for it. For Uncle Dom, she told herself, determinedly switching her attention back to the multi-range imagers she was using to warn Mike of targets. She stiffened, immediately seeing two figures making their way across the roof to a small turret on their right. "Two men, bearing six degrees relative, elevation thirty feet."  
  
"Got it!" Rivers returned, sounding obscenely cheerful under the circumstances. She'd seen that before, though -- noticed it in Saint John as well -- that taut elation that came with the onset of armed combat. She remembered Mike's words of earlier, how this Adrenalin charge was as addicting to them as any drug, and her mouth twisted enviously. They get a rush off all this, she thought with some repugnance. All I get is sick to my stomach. Is that fair?  
  
The thought came even as Rivers altered Airwolf's perspective the prescribed six degrees and opened up again, this time with a single burst from the thirty millimeter cannon. The turret and fifty square feet of roof transmuted into a dust cloud, the now unrecognizable bodies catapulting to the earth.  
  
Mike's triumphant whoop was cut short as Airwolf shuddered, bullets pinging off her armored hide. He realigned her nose again, raking the areas on either side of the garden path. One man rose from the level of the bushes, throwing up his arms and loosing some gleaming metallic object -- probably the source of the impacts on Airwolf, for they stopped briefly before resuming from another direction.  
  
"New target bearing one-eight-one degrees," Jo said, her eyes widening when she saw that there were two targets in that direction, one of them unfolding a suspiciously long, round object with some form of stock. "He's got a rocket, Mike!" she yelled, fighting the scream that wanted to erupt and pleased when the words emerged with far more equanimity than she felt.  
  
"No problem," the combat pilot returned gleefully, making full use of the weapons. "Too bad we can't let go with a Copperhead and solve the whole problem in one shot."  
  
"You know we can't do that!" Jo admonished, for once not appreciating the joke. "Saint John and the others are still inside. They could be killed if you use a missile."  
  
"I know, I know! Relax, Jo, Uncle Mikey has everything under control." Mike sounded so condescending that Jo wanted to slug him, but she had to admit that the man did know what he was doing. He guided the gunship back and across the estate lands like a giant wasp, taking a few hits from ground fire but effectively pinning down most of the enemy troops while their backup achieved positioning.  
  
"Airwolf, this is Epsilon Guard," came through the radio. "Airwolf, do you copy?"  
  
Jo touched a button on her console, opening up communications with the lead chopper. "Airwolf copies you, Epsilon Guard. Is this Agent Klondyker?"  
  
"Ol' Billy-boy Klondyker at your service, ma'am!" drawled an unruffled voice almost as Texas as Caitlin's. "Make one more strafing run then watch your fire, Airwolf; my men are going in after your next pass."  
  
"Roger that," Jo replied, already swaying against her harness as Mike began another run, machine guns chattering. "You just be careful who you guys take out inside -- we have a rescue team gone in after hostages."  
  
"Word has already been passed." It was obvious from Klondyker's voice that he was otherwise occupied. "Stringfellow Hawke is one of the insertion team, isn't he?"  
  
"So?" Jo replied, acutely aware of the lack of affection the Company's agents had for her aggravating maverick of a foster cousin.  
  
"So, nothing, Airwolf," the Company's armed assault leader returned with a hint of mischief. "Knowing that, we'll try not to shoot him on sight. Epsilon Guard out."  
  
"Hey--!" But Jo's protest met only the static of a closed frequency. She fumed silently for a moment, her eyes locked on the scanners, tracking the results of Mike's final run while her mind tossed back all forms of retorts she could have made to the pompous soldier. It was only when the sound of gunfire had ceased that she became aware of the low laughter coming through her headset. "What's so funny?" she snapped, too worried to find much amusement in their situation.  
  
Mike rolled Airwolf up and away from the garden, maintaining an altitude of sixty feet off the ground. "Sounds like the Boy Wonder is packing quite a rep with the regulars," he snickered, assuming a position that would give them a good view of Epsilon Guard in action. "I get the impression there's bonus points for the guy that brings back his ears and tail."  
  
Jo's glare should have bored a hole in his helmet. "Considering these guys are trained killers," she returned coldly, "that might not be off the mark."  
  
Mirth melted out of Rivers voice, and the look he cast at her over his shoulder carried the genuine empathy that had helped make them such fast friends in so short a time. "Saint John, Stringfellow and I are all trained killers, too," he reminded her gently. "That doesn't make us mad dogs out to shoot everything that crosses our paths."  
  
She hung her head, regretting the outburst. "I know. But I can't help worrying. We've no idea what kind of shape Uncle Dom is in. And String's hurt -- bad. He should be in a hospital, not doping himself up and jumping back into a fight."  
  
"Whoa!" Mike interrupted with more optimism than she felt. "They're all going to be fine. We've been doing this a long time, remember." He chuckled again, this time out of friendship. "Even good old boy, Stringfellow! You'll see. Besides, I figure Saint John is planning on pinning back his baby brother's ears personally for this stunt. He's not going to let Epsilon get them first!"  
  
"I doubt it. They always support each other in things like that. Saint John even looked like he approved of String taking those drugs." But she had to smile despite her worry, his infectious enthusiasm renewing old yearnings. "You just wait until we get Uncle Dom back. Both String and Saint John are going to be happy again, just like they used to be!"  
  
"Hmmmm," Rivers answered abstractedly. "Just look at those guys in action!"  
  
'Those guys in action' was certainly a sight to see. Epsilon Guard's two troop carriers hovered nearly fifty feet from the ground, high enough for their snipers to command a good view of the landscape. With them laying down covering fire, the big helicopters next sprouted long tendrils -- a half dozen from the apertures located in each side. Seconds later these tendrils swarmed with men, sliding rapidly to the ground and scattering to set up their own protective lines.  
  
"They're good," Mike approved. "Beautiful coordination."  
  
Jo craned her head, choosing the polarized window over her monitor. The troops certainly were disciplined, moving in a synchronized dance from one point to another. She could make out two sets of combatants: Epsilon Guard, in brown and yellow striped fatigues, mixed here and there with men clad in white coveralls, the highly recognizable trademark of Archangel's section. All carried assault rifles, with grenades stuck to their belts. They engaged Horn's men the minute they hit the ground, slowly, inexorably, forcing them back into the house; the enemy gave ground hard, fighting for each square inch.  
  
"Looks like it's going to be a long skirmish," Mike said, shooting off several rounds at some brave souls who dared try to use the roof as high ground. "But once Epsilon has them bottled, it shouldn't take much effort to burn them out of the house."  
  
"So long as they don't burn the hostages while they're at it," Jo murmured to herself, her throat too constricted to share the thought aloud.  
  
*** 


	33. Chapter 33

Having finished their search of the first basement level with no more success than the satisfaction of neutralizing another half-dozen of Horn's employees, Saint John and Stringfellow Hawke descended to the bottom of the emergency stairs, taking a moment to listen carefully before peeping out. Though commendable, their prudence was also unnecessary; this level seemed deserted, the main body of troops undoubtedly massed at the front of the large house, where the sounds of a major firefight were still audible even through the heavy timbers and stone walls.  
  
Saint John nevertheless checked carefully before turning to his brother, who was leaning heavily against the metal banister, eyes shut and face decidedly grayish despite the fever. He grabbed the younger man's arm tightly, broad-planed features grave. "I figured everything was going to wear off at once," he said quietly, without accusation. "You didn't have much morphine, and even Benzedrine can't work if there's no reserves left to work with."  
  
"I'm all right," Stringfellow panted, forcing open unfocused eyes filled with the rapidly worsening pain of his injuries. "We're too close to stop now."  
  
"I don't think you're going to have much choice pretty soon," the older man returned matter-of-factly, still making no move. "Think you can stay on your feet a while longer?"  
  
String nodded firmly. "Got to. It's for Dom."  
  
Simple appearances qualifying the statement less-than-reassuringly, Saint John waited until the other had straightened determinedly away from the wall before he released the arm he was still clutching and stepped into the corridor, String at his back. He glanced in both directions again and sighed. "Fighting's closer than before. We need to tap Airwolf for help again." Once more he used the radio to contact their air-borne allies, this time getting a more definite response.  
  
"Your level has cleared out pretty well," Jo said after a moment's pause during which she rechecked her scanners, "and the power is off in several sections. The left end of the hall reads as seven people all in some form of transit, probably evacuating. The right shows two separate readings. The closest room to you, fifteen feet distance, has one human with depressed life signs -- injured or unconscious. The second is at the far end next to the elevator, and shows four people clustered together in one room. ... Both show steady electronic pulse in the door, whatever that is."  
  
"Electronic locking devices," Stringfellow Hawke supplied grimly. "Either Dom or Michael could have been hurt by those scum and left for dead."  
  
"You'd better hurry," Mike announced, overhearing through the radio. "Epsilon Guard has secured the exterior, and forced several of Horn's troopers to retreat into the building. They're filtering towards your position."  
  
"Roger," Saint John called, having to break into a run to keep up with his already departing brother. "We'll be in touch." He repocketed the radio, catching up in front of the white panel that doubled as a security door. String fired two shots into the locking mechanism; Saint John slung the Ingram over one shoulder and brushed him back with an outflung hand. He fitted his fingers into grooves in the door, then tensed, his powerful muscles bulging under his flight suit. The heavy door slid open silently, allowing them access into the dimly lit interior.  
  
"There's a body lying there next to the ... bed?" Saint John entered rifle barrel first, stopping to stare at the altered hospital gurney with it's restraining straps; he shifted his gaze to the still figure on the floor, then knelt, pressing two fingers against her throat. "It's a woman. She's alive. Looks like somebody punched her in the face." He frowned, becoming aware of the conspicuous silence behind, turning to see his brother standing stock still in the doorway, blue eyes wide and fastened on the heretofore unnoticed image being projected onto the wall. Saint John turned his head, following the younger man's line of sight, scanning the handsome, fair man's image once. "Is that Horn?" he asked, coming to his feet and crossing rapidly to the other's side. "String?"  
  
Stringfellow Hawke flinched visibly at his brother's light touch, shaking himself free of the momentary nightmare that had gripped him. He gulped and took one step forward until he could see the fallen woman. "That's Zarkov," he snarled, his gun just 'happening' to dip in her direction.  
  
Reading the intent accurately, Saint John snagged his arm, tugging back toward the door. "Good -- we'll know where to find her when this is all over."  
  
String glanced at him, genuine hope lightening the anger in his sapphire eyes. "That means the next one ... it might be Dom!" The exclamation was followed by a burst of energy that carried him through the door and down the hall at a lope; mentally following Jo's directions he traversed the length of the corridor, stopping before the last closed panel in a series, standing at an angle to the elevator and across from another set of emergency stairs.  
  
Without pausing to consider the consequences of guessing wrong, String threw himself against the door, pounding on it with one fist. "Dom?" he yelled rather more loudly than caution might dictate. "Dom, you in there?"  
  
There was a muffled thump from within, then the door slid open and Hawke precipitated himself inside. He made it exactly one step beyond the threshold before his eye lit on something crimson puddling on the floor by his left foot. He followed the trail automatically, freezing horrifiedly at the sight of the beautiful and very dead woman lying against the wall. Angelica's eyes were closed, her pretty face wearing so serene an expression that one might have made the mistake of thinking she was merely sleeping if not for the ugly hole her hair was barely concealing.  
  
String stared for a single second before noticing the man standing beside the body. Blue eyes rose to lock on the arctic ones of John Bradford Horn, who was regarding him with a disdainful sneer.  
  
"It seems dear Anastasia's conditioning was less permanent than she thought," Horn began, outwardly unruffled by the hate flaring in the younger man's eyes. "I don't suppose you actually managed to-- UMPH!" That was when Stringfellow lunged forward, an inarticulate snarl his only vocal response to the taunting. He caught the older man in the midsection, his weight carrying them both backwards to slam against the wall, then tumble to the floor. Landing on top, Stringfellow planted his bandaged fist once against the sneering mouth, then wrapped his fingers around the man's throat and began to squeeze. Horn made a gurgling sound, his arrogance replaced by outright fear. He clawed at Hawke's hands desperately, fists impacting vainly on the young man's face and body, all without result. Stringfellow Hawke simply gritted his teeth and continued to choke the life out of his most hated enemy.  
  
Momentarily frozen by the suddenness of the attack, Michael and Dominic could only gape stupidly, while little Amy screamed and threw herself back behind the radio console. The men recovered at roughly the same time, the both forcing themselves into motion toward the downed men. "Don't kill him, Hawke!" Archangel wheezed, throwing himself at one of the taut-muscled arms and pulling. "We ... need information about ... his organization."  
  
Santini mirrored the action on the other side and with as much success. "C'mon, kid," he grunted, throwing his considerably lessened bulk backwards in a futile attempt at breaking that death grip. "Y'know this ain't gonna be good for you. String!"  
  
Santini's rough voice penetrated the murderous glaze in which the younger man was wrapped. The vicious countenance blanked, utter astonishment smoothing away the hatred. Hawke stared open-mouthed at the changed face of his closest friend cum foster father, tracing the heavy scarring that started on the lower jaw to disappear under the t-shirt. He blinked several times before comprehension sank in. "D-Dom?" he whispered, nerveless fingers loosing their hold on Horn's throat. "Is it really...?"  
  
Santini chuckled, his gravelly voice filled with genuine pleasure. "You were expecting Little Orphan Annie?" he retorted, brown eyes shining damply. He opened his arms. "C'mere, kid!"  
  
With a strangled cry, Stringfellow Hawke threw himself into that welcome embrace, burying his face in Santini's shoulder and not noticing when Michael rolled Horn out of the way. "That explosion should have killed you."  
  
Santini growled happily, a tear sliding down his seamed cheeks. "You ought'a know how hard it is to kill an old chopper jockey like me! It was you I wuz worried about!"  
  
"Th-they said you were d-dead!" Hawke stammered, hugging the older man as tightly as he could. "Michael said...." He stopped, pulling back to stare accusingly up at the white-garbed, now-erect agent. "You said it was all a trick of Zarkov's -- that Dominic was only in my mind."  
  
Michael's grin faded; he lifted one shoulder, looking uncomfortable. "So, I was wrong. It's safe to come out now," he told Amy Newman, who was regarding him from cover.  
  
But the young pilot wasn't to be put off. He stared hard at the agent, blue eyes narrowing with a mixture of enlightenment and betrayal. "So it was all a lie," he decided at last, not noticing the tight grip Dominic was maintaining on his shoulders. "You knew all this time about Dom being alive." He started to rise, bandaged fists clenched, but Dominic placed his palm flat on his foster son's chest, giving him a solid shove.  
  
"Let it go, String," he said sternly. "He called it right this time. Letting Horn get Airwolf would have cost a lot more lives than one old man's. I couldn't have lived with myself if that had happened, and you weren't in any condition to prevent it." His voice softened when the look of betrayal did not fade from the other's face. "I wouldn't've wanted him to do anything less. And I wouldn't have expected any less from you."  
  
"He would have let you die," Hawke spat, his blue gaze still boring unforgivingly into Archangel's carefully neutral one.  
  
Dom raised his hand until he could cup the younger man's neck. "C'mon, kid. You know if they could'a used me against you, they wouldn't have let up for a minute ... on either of us. This way just saved us both a little pain."  
  
Archangel did not move nor did he look away. "They were going to kill us all anyway," he returned steadily, the white knuckled grip he kept on his rifle broadcasting his agitation though his voice did not. "I couldn't take a chance on Airwolf falling into their hands for no reason."  
  
"Dom isn't no reason," Stringfellow gritted back.  
  
"Better to go out that way, knowing they couldn't use me to hurt you any worse." Dominic shook him gently until the penetrating gaze shifted from the blond agent to him. "Michael made the right decision. It couldn't have been an easy one." He leaned closer, emphasizing each word of his trump card. "You know what it's like to have to trade one life for many."  
  
The betrayed look shifted its focus from Briggs to Santini, Hawke's expression that of a child who'd been slapped and didn't know why. Santini looked back calmly, forcing his point home, painful though it might be, and slowly the tension went out of Hawke's slim body, the anger fading if not disappearing from his eyes. "Yeah, I know what it's like." He clenched his teeth and looked away, the impression he gave curiously one of loss. "I wish it had been anyone else but you, Michael." He straightened preparatory to standing, then swayed dizzily, nearly keeling over but for Dominic's continued hold.  
  
"String!" The older man pulled him into a sitting position, supporting him briefly until the spell passed. He studied the battered countenance and dulled eyes closely for a moment, his lips tightening with disapproval. "What are you on?" he demanded, loosing one hand to wave a finger under Hawke's nose at the immediate disavowal. "Don't lie to me, kid, I know you too well. They doped you up to get you to come back here, didn't they?" He shot an enraged glance at Briggs, who lifted one hand, fingers spread.  
  
"Don't look at me," the agent objected, glancing back when Amy again tangled her little fist in his shirttail. "I've been here with you, remember?"  
  
Recovering his balance if not much of his energy, Hawke gently disengaged himself from the other's tight grip and used the radio stand to pull himself to his feet. "I'm all right," he stated flatly, bracing himself against the counter and turning from his friends to Horn. "I-- Hey!" His bellow drew all of them toward the disheveled industrialist, who had used the distraction to advantage and was busily typing something into the computer keyboard. Hawke grabbed for his missing Browning, while Archangel swept the barrel of his own commandeered rifle around and pulled the trigger, riddling two of the terminals with a lead shower. Horn dove for cover, one arm coming up to shield his face from plastic splinters. From all appearances, however, Michael's actions had come far too late; where once the monitors had shown the view immediately without the room, they had all switched as one and now showed an analog clockface, the hands set at ten minutes and counting down.  
  
"What did you do?" Hawke demanded, jamming the barrel of the Browning under the industrialist's chin. "Tell me."  
  
Arctic eyes returned the glare, undistressed by the implied threat. "Not being a total fool, I had the foresight to set a self-destruct mechanism somewhere in the building. I had planned to use it after I'd achieved my goal. However...." He waved one manicured hand negligently toward the body of his daughter, which lay forgotten in the corner. "I don't think I've anything to lose by jumping the gun, do you, gentlemen?"  
  
Lips drawn back, Hawke swung the man around, slamming him into the nearest monitor; the blond head made a dull clunk when it hit the glass. "How do we stop it?"  
  
Horn gurgled as his breath was cut off but managed to gasp, "You can't. There was no abort code built in."  
  
A tense hush fell, broken only by the sound of Michael's fingers playing across the remaining keyboard. He worked frantically for ninety seconds then straightened. "No good; I can't get access."  
  
Hearing truth in the statement, Hawke released Horn, allowing Michael to snag the man's collar and haul him toward the door. "We have to get out of here," the pilot said, offering Santini a hand up. "Dom, can you walk?"  
  
"Yeah. We were just getting ready to move anyway." He pointed to the multiple clockface, which now stood at seven minutes. "We had troops camped on the elevator and these stairs until now. Oh, thank you, honey." Santini smiled at the little girl, who had appeared at his side with the discarded crutch in one hand and the dropped pistol held between thumb and forefinger of the other. With Stringfellow's shaky support, he managed to stand and balance himself until he could get the crutch under his shoulder, his brown eyes following the boy's sad ones when they noticed the missing foot for the first time. "Later, String," he admonished gently, although a spasm of loss crossed his own craggy features as well. "We've got to get out of here."  
  
Hawke took a shallow breath, again wrapping one arm around his midsection and glancing around puzzledly. "That's funny. He was right behind me." He ducked out the door at a rapid limp, leaving Michael to bring up the rear with Horn.  
  
"Right behind you? Who was right behind you?" Dom hollered, hobbling in his son's wake.  
  
*** 


	34. Chapter 34

"String, wait!" Saint John Hawke made a snatch for his brother's sleeve, but Stringfellow was already moving with a burst of energy neither of them suspected he still had. The younger pilot broke into an awkward, hobbling run and disappeared almost immediately around a shallow bend in the corridor. The protest was wasted on deaf -- and now absent -- ears. Saint John sighed and made to follow, hesitating at the sound of several gunshots that were channeled down the funnel of the corridor from above. "Sounds like that was right overhead," he muttered, running a mental map of the area they'd just traversed. If their intentions were to filter downward, enemy troops could reach the staircase at any moment.  
  
The shots came again, louder this time, and Saint John turned to look backwards, doing another rapid calculation of distances and ETA's. The results formed ... then vanished when he found himself face-to-face with the jeans-clad figure who materialized from a small side-corridor quite suddenly, looking quite as surprised to see Saint John as the reverse. He was a big man, roughly Saint John's own six foot one, but much broader, built more like a wrestler than the trim soldier Hawke was. Dark, piggish eyes glittered from a bed of ebony-colored gristle, the round features lined by years of depravity. They gaped at each other for a full two seconds, then Saint John broke the paralysis in which he found himself; the Ingram had centered on the black man's forehead before the other's handgun could find its target.  
  
"I wouldn't," Saint John warned, even as the other froze. "Drop it, Bishop."  
  
Thick lips pulled back from yellow teeth in a snarl, but Bishop Morris obeyed the command reinforced as it was by the subtle tightening of Hawke's finger on the trigger. The automatic hit the floor with a loud clatter beside one muddy high-top, then he lifted both hands away from his body, holding them open to show they were empty. "I heard you were finally home from the wars, Hawke. I was hoping we'd meet up."  
  
Saint John laughed sourly, the old remembered dislike for this man welling again as strong as ever even after nearly twenty years. "I bet you were," he returned acidly. "Auld lang syne, eh?"  
  
The returned sneer carried every bit as much antipathy. "Yeah, I really missed you." He glanced over Saint John's shoulder, probably seeking reinforcements, but they were alone -- Hawke could sense that much now that the sporadic gunfire above had hit a lull. Seeing nothing, Morris stared insolently at the other pilot, from short bronze hair to broad shoulders to combat boots, finally settling on the patch on the silver flight suit, that of a roaring, winged wolf. "So, they got you flying that black honey Horn wants so bad," he remarked, small eyes filled with the interest Airwolf always engendered in a pilot. "Thought that one belonged to your brother."  
  
"You never were very good at thinking," Saint John remarked in a hard voice. "Passing out dope -- that's what Colonel Curtis kept you around for and not much more."  
  
Morris waggled one hand, making sure to do so without making it seem threatening; a MAC-11 is a very good deterrent in that arena. "If you'd'a been smart you could have gotten in on the deal like your brother did. He used to work for me after my transfer."  
  
If he'd expected this to confuse Saint John, he was mistaken. The feeble attempt at causing a rift actually relaxed the younger pilot slightly, gray eyes sparkling with contempt. "Won't wash, Bishop. I know String told you to shove off a long time before you even had a chance to make the offer."  
  
"A Boy Scout," the black man retorted, "like you an' the rest of Vidor's Golden Boys. Thought you were too good for the rest of us."  
  
"The rest of you drug dealers?" Hawke supplied, thin lip lifting on one side. He remembered 'the rest of us' well -- a band of mercenaries culled from the ranks, baser appetites pandered to in exchange for the corruption of the innocent.  
  
Morris seemed unoffended by the appellation. "I made me a bushel of money with Curtis, but after this caper I'm going to retire a rich man."  
  
"You're going to retire to San Quentin," the other volleyed, cradling his MAC-11 a little closer. "I'm sure all your money will buy enough cigarettes to keep you alive for a while." He gestured at the mercenary's dirty jeans and sweaty black sports shirt. "I see you can afford Brooks Brothers these days."  
  
Morris' laugh was cruel, his face so filled with sadistic pleasure that Hawke could only stare with a kind of fascinated repugnance, the way one might at something particularly loathsome. "Yeah! Brooks Brothers. That's real good, Boy Scout! Why don't I tell you what that pretty little spy was wearing when we met up at the airport?" Morris smacked his lips, making the sound an obscenity. "Pammy, wasn't that her name? Yep, she was a spirited little thing -- just how I liked 'em in 'Nam."  
  
"You liked them dead in 'Nam," the blond spat, disgusted. "The local girls tried to avoid you as much as possible."  
  
"The local girls would do anything for C-rations. I learned that quick enough." The black man's chin jutted pugnaciously, sadistic amusement entering his expression. "Like Dan-yi. Remember her? She used ta be one of yours, I think."  
  
Truth be told, Saint John didn't remember Dan-yi although the name rang vague bells. He'd first gone to Viet Nam almost twenty years before, and during that time -- especially after he and Maggie broke up -- there had been many women in various capacities. But that had been a long time ago. Maggie. Her pretty face flashed before him and was gone, evoking a shade of the old affections he'd felt for the woman. String had said she was married with a child now; at least she'd had the good sense to steer clear of scum like Morris, even if she had fallen for Mace Taggert's dubious charms.  
  
Growing acutely conscious of the passage of time, he said aloud, "Viet Nam was a long time ago, Morris. Today is what's important. Why don't we go meet some people." He gestured down the hall behind him. "This way. Easy does it, now."  
  
Morris obeyed, moving forward until they were abreast in the hallway. He then stopped, turning to face Saint John across the length of the gun; prudently, Hawke stepped backward a pace. "Keep going," he ordered in a hard voice."  
  
Never lacking for courage, Morris ignored the warning although he still kept his hands away from his body. "You an' me," he invited, making two fists. "We got a personal score to settle."  
  
"All you have is a bullet in the gut if you don't get moving," Saint John returned scornfully at the obvious gambit; he felt far more comfortable with the assault weapon right where it was.  
  
A crafty look entered Morris' eyes, and Hawke tensed, already knowing what the soldier-for-hire was about to say -- it was the last psychological weapon in his arsenal. "I wouldn't be too trusting of your little brother," Morris remarked, deliberately provocative. "Not after Zarkov got through with him." He leaned fractionally closer, enough to give the impression of confidentiality, not enough to earn the promised bullet. "Maybe I could tell you all about that part. Want to hear how loud he screamed when Zarkov was applying the juice to him?" He took one step closer, stopping again when Hawke's knuckles tightened around the trigger. "He screamed and begged and slobbered all over me to help him out."  
  
That did strike home, for Saint John would long remember his brother's collapse back at the Lair. He tensed, gray eyes becoming steel while he briefly considered ending the confrontation then and there ... and permanently. His only manifest response, however, was a tiny shrug. "You have it all wrong, Bishop," he told the black man in a reasonable timbre. "It's String who has the short fuse, not me." He smiled coldly, little more than a twitch of his lips. "Me, I'm the calm one, the patient one -- the one who doesn't mind waiting to see you sentenced to life in prison for murder. Or is there a death penalty in Nevada? Yeah, I think there might be."  
  
Morris gulped, cruel gaze filling with malice. "Taking the kid out felt almost as good as icing that old man, Santini."  
  
No more than a flicker crossed Saint John's face at the taunt. "If there isn't a death penalty in this state," he remarked consideringly, "I'm sure the Company can arrange one for me as a personal favor."  
  
Although the words were light, there was no mistaking the deadly seriousness in his tone. Saint John felt the hatred welling in his gut, a fountain of loathing that had surfaced many long years before and geysered with the injury done his brother. He did want to pay back the smirking mercenary for what he'd done to String, to a woman named Pamela, and the anonymous soldiers who had perished at this man's hands over the years. But Hawke knew that allowing a fight to turn personal was often tantamount to putting a bullet in your own head -- lose your control and lose your life. He was far too experienced to let that happen. He was also once more keenly aware, however, that revenge could be completed with a minimum of risk by simply ... squeezing the trigger....  
  
Morris seemed to realize this too, and stiffened, pig-like eyes sliding down to rest on the Ingram. There was another tense pause then Morris nodded acknowledgment although the glower he offered was full of promise. Saint John waited until the black man had begun his turn, then snapped into rapid motion, lowering the gun long enough to step forward and arc his left fist in a fierce backhanded swing that caught the big black man square in the face. Morris' head snapped back, the force of the blow slamming him backwards and all but sending him to his knees. He leaned heavily against the wall, blood trickling from a split lip, the re-aimed Ingram preventing him from taking that clearly telegraphed leap at Saint John's throat.  
  
They stared at each other for long seconds while Hawke fought down the urge to repeat the act. He smiled again, even more frostily than before but feeling better nonetheless. "Guess I was wrong. Looks like String isn't the only one with a short fuse."  
  
Morris spat, a broken tooth hitting the floor by Saint John's right boot. "This ain't over by a long shot, Hawke -- not for you or the kid."  
  
"It'll be over right now," the blond returned imperturbably, "if you don't get going."  
  
There could be no question but this was the absolute truth. Once again Bishop Morris moved in the question indicated, offering only a single malicious glare to back up his oath. They had progressed no more than a few yards when the sound of a gunshot interrupted the brief hush that had fallen, its direction the one in which Stringfellow had disappeared only moments before.  
  
"String!" Saint John exclaimed involuntarily, fear for his brother welling to crowd out thoughts of revenge and anger. For a single split second, Bishop Morris ceased to exist, Saint John's only reality being the dangers his brother could be encountering. They had worked as a team too often to ever doubt the other's abilities, but Saint John knew that now String was badly injured and in no condition to hold his own in a fight. He caught his breath and browbeat his attention back to his captive ... only a fraction of a second too late.  
  
Distraction in battle is often statistically grouped in with bullet wounds -- usually as cause and effect -- on the list headed Most Frequent Causes of Fatalities, and of this Saint John became truly if only briefly aware, for that fraction of a second was all a trained warrior like Bishop Morris needed. The big mercenary shifted his weight onto his left leg, bringing his right around in an ungraceful but effective spinning back kick that sent the compact MAC-11 flying several yards. He followed this up by lunging onto that foot and landing a straight punch into Saint John's gut.  
  
Hawke's expelled his breath in an explosive gasp, the corridor dimming as though a red veil had been dropped over his head. Operating on sheer instinct, he threw himself to the side, sensing a powerhouse right cross whistle past his head, and landing a sharp jab of his own. Morris was forced back a step, give Hawke the opportunity to draw in a shallow breath to clear his vision. He succeeded barely in time, for the big black man was already in motion with a flurry of vicious jabs any one of which would have ended the fight then and there. Faster by far, Saint John danced out of the way, ducking one and using his position to kick out, the toe of his heavy boot landing solidly in the bigger man's crotch. Morris grunted and doubled over, venting a stream of grunted oaths that should have caused the air to sizzle.  
  
Intending to end the fight without further ado, Saint John closed the distance between them, one large fist cocked for a final, crushing blow to the other's pugnacious jaw. Morris, obviously less incapacitated than he'd put on, rallied to his own attack. Relatively matched in size, strength and experience, the two traded blows for nearly two minutes, each managing to land several solid body punches before breaking away.  
  
Saint John, breathing hard, studied his opponent calculatedly, assessing the damage he'd done to the burly body. Although bruises barely showed against the man's dark skin, blood streamed from the squat nose and split lip, a lump already visible on the man's jaw. He was moving slower than before as well, less able to avoid Hawke's blows; whereas Hawke, a few years younger and of trimmer physique, retained his speed and agility. Got you now, scumball, he thought, closing in for the finale.  
  
He'd've made it, too, but for the overhead explosion that shook the foundation of the house, one that Hawke recognized as the proper application of high explosives that Mike Rivers had mentioned back at the Lair. Epsilon Guard must be entering the house even as they spoke!  
  
Morris must have realized this also, for, rather than responding to Saint John's renewed threat, he turned and dove past the swinging blond, sprinting the way he'd come. The elevator! Saint John realized, eyes widening with dismay. He too broke into a run, but was too late to prevent the black man from diving into the open elevator and slapping his hand on the Close button. Saint John reached him just as the doors shut, and frantically applied his strength, attempting to force the metal doors back open. There was no purchase for his fingers, and he was left impotently staring at the white metal frame. "No!" he growled punching the metal surface frustratedly. "This isn't going to happen, Bishop!"  
  
His eye caught on the red EXIT sign to his right. The stairway! He loped toward them only to come up short when he heard the sound of boots above. "Friend or foe?" he mused fleetingly, remembering Jo's admonition that Horn's troops were being forced toward the lower levels. Unable to identify the unknown by their step, Hawke decided to pursue the better part of valor, and beat a hasty retreat in the direction his brother had taken, scooping up the Ingram as he passed. He hadn't forgotten the gunshot that had precipitated the skirmish in the first place.  
  
The room Jo had targeted lay at the corridor's other extreme, on an angle to the second elevator provided for staff and residents. This chamber's panel/door was open -- a gaping invitation. But to what? Saint John approached cautiously, now able to discern voices from within but unable to recognize them as yet. Wait ... one of them sounded like String, but there was another speaking as well ... a stranger. Perhaps an armed stranger?  
  
Machine pistol ready, Saint John paused several feet from the entrance, tensed ... and leapt backwards when a fair haired, slender figure in a silver flight suit like Saint John's own, barrelled out the door. "String?" he bellowed in response, barely preventing reflex from tightening his finger on the trigger.  
  
The silver clad man spun towards him, bringing up his own automatic. The two glared at each other for a long moment, then the younger man's face cleared, a relieved smile on his cracked lips, tautness flowing from his battered body in a tide. "Where've you been?" Stringfellow breathed, lowering the Browning. "I thought--"  
  
"You thought?" the older man grinned, feeling as much relief as String showed. "What happened? I heard a shot." He turned to scan the hallway behind them. No telling if Bishop was sending friends this way. When he turned back it was to stare rooted in shock at a much changed but long beloved figure that had held a place in Saint John Hawke's heart for the better part of his life. "D-Dominic?" he stuttered when he could speak at all. "Dominic, is that really you?"  
  
By all appearances, Dominic Santini was even more astonished to see him. Brown eyes grew round, the jowled jaw dropping. Santini's gray head shook from side to side, tilted as though he couldn't believe the evidence of his eyes. "It can't be," he decided at last, nevertheless using his single crutch to wobble closer for a better look. "It isn't possible ... after all these years."  
  
"It's true, Dom!" String positively glowed with happiness, his joy injecting new life into his injured body and exhausted eyes. "Saint John got back three months ago."  
  
Santini spared the younger brother a single, confirming glance, then Saint John's legs were moving of their own accord, his arms closing around his foster father's shoulders in a fierce bearhug. "Thought you were gone, my friend," he managed hoarsely, the lump in his throat swelling to blur his vision with tears. "Long gone."  
  
He felt Dom's arms close around him in turn, the crutch clattering unnoticed to the floor. "It's you that was lost, boy," Santini growled, his own tears wetting Hawke's shoulder. "God forgive me, I buried you fifteen years ago despite what String believed." He pulled back, using one hand -- badly scarred and missing fingers, the blond noticed -- to wipe his own eyes, the other to touch Saint John's face, running it down the long jaw and pausing at the new bruises already swelling there. "Been through a few recent wars, I see," was the old pilot's only comment.  
  
"Bishop Morris. I lost him." Somehow Saint John couldn't work up much regret over the fact right this minute. The time to settle with Morris would come; now was only the pleasure of seeing Dominic Santini again.  
  
Santini grunted, patting one of the hands Saint John kept wrapped around his upper arms. Over his shoulder he growled, "Why didn't you tell me Saint John was back?"  
  
This was directed not to Stringfellow, but to the disheveled, white garbed man, who was prodding a second blond into the hall by jabbing him in the back with an assault rifle. "I had a few other things on my mind, if you'll recall," Michael Coldsmith-Briggs returned mildly, freeing one hand to adjust his half-blackened glasses higher on his puffy nose. "Good to see you, Hawke."  
  
Saint John nodded back, eyes flicking to the little girl trailing Michael by a step, then to the captive, who was standing quietly, animosity glowing behind his turquoise colored eyes. "Is that Horn?"  
  
"John Bradford Horn," Archangel acknowledged, jabbing the man again. "Who has set a detonation device due to go off in ..." He glanced backward, consulting something out of Hawke's view. "... six minutes, thirty-nine seconds. We have to get out of here." He took a cautious step to the side and took a glaring Santini by one arm, then jerked his head meaningfully at Stringfellow.  
  
Saint John followed his gesture in time to see the younger man abort an attempt at retrieving the crutch, his gasp of pain at bending cut off between clenched teeth. Saint John casually brushed past as if he wasn't there, picking up the crutch and fitting it under Santini's shoulder. "We'd better move. We might have to fight our way past what's left of Horn's troops." There was some satisfaction in seeing the industrialist stiffen at that, then there was no more time for taunts, for time truly was running out. Saint John and Stringfellow taking the point, the five men and one child made their way quickly across the hall, disdaining the elevator and choosing instead the staircase. Saint John paused to listen but heard no sign of life from the immediate vicinity; he hoped this meant Horn's men were corralled in the half of the building they'd just quitted.  
  
They made their way up, Saint John loosing one hand from the Ingram to pull the little radio out of his pocket. "Jo," he hailed in a low voice. "Horn activated a bomb under the building; tell Epsilon Guard to pull back. Now!"  
  
Her acknowledgement came immediately, then Saint John was repocketing the device and concentrating on his climb. There was a brief whisper of sound from above, that of footsteps retreating toward the front of the house. He nodded, and the rag-tag team started off again, making their hobbling way up the stairs, which terminated in what appeared to be a large recreational area; a pool table dominated the far end, comfortable chairs and a sofa arranged near a bar on the left. Through open double doors off to the right a barracks arrangement with tiered bunks could be glimpsed.  
  
"I see an exit past the bar," String directed, nudging Saint John's arm with his elbow. "C'mon, this--" The words were cut off with the sharp, flat crack of a rifle mixing almost simultaneously with the dull thud of lead entering wood. Splinters erupted beside String's head, sending both men diving backward into the stairwell for cover.  
  
"That you, Hawke?" a familiar bass voice called as almost a friendly taunt. "Come back to learn another lesson about disappearing into a crowd?"  
  
"Friend of your, String?" Santini asked mock-blandly from behind.  
  
"Horn's head of security -- mercenary named Rombauer." That was Michael, who was keeping one cautious hand on the industrialist's collar, the other holding the AK-47 against his spine. "He was the one who captured us at Ling-Ling's."  
  
"Rombauer's the only one covering the exit," the younger Hawke reported, peeking around the protecting wall. "Two others outside the door returning fire into the field."  
  
Saint John double checked the load in his rifle. We're going to get one opportunity, he told himself grimly, and if it doesn't come in the next minute or two, it won't come at all. "Cover?" he rapped aloud.  
  
"None close enough to do any good." String ducked back ahead of another attempt at removing his head from his shoulders long-distance, and adjusted his already crushing grip on the Browning. "Get ready, Saint John; he's going to have to expose himself when he goes for me. Wait for your chance."  
  
Saint John Hawke knew his brother too well -- had worked with him far too long -- to misunderstand the proposed strategy. He snagged the young man's wrist above the scarlet spotted bandages, pulling him to a halt. "What makes you think it's going to be you that draws fire?" he demanded more harshly than he intended. "I'm a lot faster right now."  
  
"You're going to make the shot," Stringfellow returned, pulling his wrist free.  
  
"I've got the rank, Captain," Major Saint John Hawke retorted, experienced mind already calculating his route into the rec room. If he turned a long jump into a somersault.... His attention snapped around at the gentle touch on his arm, and he found himself peering into a pair of weary but determined blue eyes.  
  
"Can't do it, Saint John." String shook his head, hefting the Browning tiredly as though it were nearly too heavy to hold. "We've only got one shot and I won't be able to make it. I ... can't see that well anymore."  
  
The admission cost him -- Saint John could see that before he looked away. Although every instinct he had screamed at him to gainsay what was about to happen -- that String could never move fast enough to evade a bullet! -- still, there were only seconds left before six people died in an explosion of unknown proportions, one of them a little girl. This is that one opportunity you were looking for, he told himself sourly. No choice but to take it. He swallowed and forced a smile. "Make it a good one, kid," he said, bracing the MAC-11 with both hands. "Ready?"  
  
String took a deep breath, crouched ... and sprang! -- following the exact route Saint John would have had their positions been reversed. Only a fraction later, Saint John too had exposed himself to the open room, gray eyes narrowed and alert for any sign of movement. A glimpse of olive drab coincided with the loud report from Horn's sentry, a tall, thin man with a pencil mustache; the chatter of Saint John's Ingram came less than a second later, his aim true. There was a muffled scream from the doorway, then a thud, the man named Rombauer crumpling where he stood, nine millimeters of lead lodged in his heart.  
  
Saint John, however, had dismissed the dead man as soon as he'd fired, trusting years of experience to provide a successful shot. He spun on his heel, eyes seeking the prone figure of his brother on the floor, his reflexes carrying him forward in a little bound. "String?" he asked, hearing the rest following him into the rec room as a group.  
  
The younger Hawke raised his head an inch at a time, then used Saint John's offered hand to pull himself to his feet. "Good shot," he approved, reeling dizzily with his first step. He would have fallen but for Saint John's hold, but there was no sign of blood. Immensely relieved, the older Hawke slid an arm under his brother's shoulders, half supporting, half dragging him along to the tantalizingly nearby door. There was no time left!  
  
There was still sporadic firing from without; two of Horn's men were crouched back to the door, taking vain potshots at the retreating Epsilon Guard. Even as the Hawkes approached, Michael was in action; he jabbed Horn in the stomach with the barrel of the AK-47 he carried, doubling the man over and preventing him from either crying out a warning or interfering in any way. Then the blond agent stepped calmly out onto the stone porch and sprayed the area with lead; both enemy soldiers dropped; neither moved again.  
  
Michael reached back and grabbed Amy around the waist, launching himself off the porch into a full run, her little legs bouncing along in the air behind him. Horn was right behind him, evidently his instincts for self- preservation superseded his anger. Aware of only seconds left on the timer, Saint John released String to snag Dominic's right arm, waiting only until String had grabbed hold of the older man's left, then those three too were in motion, Saint John directing them toward the multi-hued boulder decorating one side of the garden. They didn't make it -- the explosion was a compressed tsunami of air, a giant's hand scooping them high then slamming them petulantly back down toward the dry, very hard earth. Peripherally, Saint John could see the same thing happening to Horn, Michael and Amy ahead of them before the ground came up to meet him and took his breath away.  
  
***  
  
The fighting was winding to a close by the time Bishop Morris effected his escape from the underground warren John Bradford Horn had used as a base of operations for the last six months. He emerged from the estate's side door and dropped into a crouching run, instincts that had protected him during twenty years steady combat, kicking in now. Movement from the tree line drew his attention; not waiting for identification, he fired from the hip and was rewarded by a grunt and a thud. A shout from his left provoked another burst from the AK-47 he'd confiscated from one of the dead, this round more 'point and spray' than aimed. The shouter fell silent, and Morris moved on. Bodies lay scattered across the blood soaked earth, limbs akimbo in the various attitudes of death. He ignored them; death held no terrors for the hardened mercenary -- no feeling at all save the thrill he felt when it was he himself who bestowed it.  
  
Since Epsilon Guard had managed to herd whatever was left of Horn's men into the mansion, Morris met with no opposition, and was only forced to duck for cover once when a soldier patrolling the perimeter passed by. He picked his way across the garden and over the wall, following a path only a dozen men were aware existed. After that it was clear for him to break into a full run, his goal a tiny wooden shed set in the center of the mine field.  
  
"Got to hand it to old Horn," he muttered, tugging open the flimsy looking door and stepping into the dim interior, "he might'a misjudged the kid's conditioning, but he didn't spare the dinero on this operation, and that just might save my hide."  
  
The shed was no more than four feet wide; little more was needed, however, since it housed no equipment. Stairs led down into the earth to a narrow, concrete tunnel only a dozen yards long, opening up into a shallow dish- shaped hollow in the earth eerily lit from above by the sun shining through camouflage netting. It gave the green and brown Huey Cobra helicopter concealed there a dappled effect, the illumination more than bright enough to highlight the fully loaded rocket launcher mounted on the chopper's right flank.  
  
Morris ran one hand lovingly over the metal skin, thick features twisted. "You're my ticket out'a here, baby," he grunted, starting violently when the earth shook with thunder. "What the--?!" he gasped, having to grab the helicopter to avoid being thrown off his feet. "An explosion! Horn blew the place up, the crazy--"  
  
But this was not the time to debate the condition of his former employer's supposed sanity. Even as the last reverberations of the blast were dying away, Morris took hold of a sturdy nylon rope dangling by the overhead rotor. A yank split the camouflage netting neatly in two; it fell to either side of the Cobra leaving a clear sky above.  
  
There was no time for the preflight sequence no experienced -- or sane -- pilot would skip by choice. Morris leaped into the command seat and began engine start-up procedure; within seconds the powerful rotors began to move, once, twice ... picking up speed even as the engine temperature and oil pressure rose in keeping with the rpm. "Just like 'Nam," Morris grinned, pulling back on the controls and clearing the sides of the shallow hole by inches only. He breasted the wall surrounding Horn's estate, flying low to avoid detection. "Looks like ol' Bishop Morris is gonna make it!"  
  
*** 


	35. Chapter 35

Horn's troops had been well trained and numerous -- more so than Epsilon Guard had been led to believe -- and had not been easy to defeat. The fighting was fierce for some time, but at long last Epsilon Guard -- with Airwolf's enthusiastic air support -- turned the tide. A score of Horn's men now lay dead or wounded across the estate grounds, their bodies unsegregated from Epsilon Guard's own losses; another handful had retreated to the dubious sanctuary of the mansion from which vantage they'd held off the no-longer advancing government agents for several minutes.  
  
High overhead, Airwolf hovered like an enormous bird of prey, her chainguns having fallen silent after almost continuous use. Inside her armored body, Mike Rivers and Jo Santini peered out at the grounds, expressions full of anxious expectation.  
  
"Where are they?" Jo asked plaintively, her blue eyes darting from one side to the other. "According to Saint John, that building could blow up any second!"  
  
"They'll make it out," her companion asserted more to himself than to her. "They will make it. Are you picking up anything on the life scanners?"  
  
Jo dipped her head back to the full color monitor just above the keyboard, studying it for several seconds. "There's too many people in there. I'm counting eight or nine scattered through the house, possibly echoes caused by that garbling I mentioned earlier."  
  
"And we're not even sure they're coming out the front," Rivers muttered, increasing their altitude another few feet. He tilted the craft slightly, beginning a slow circle of the mansion. "I'm going to double check for enemy on the grounds in--"  
  
The building blew up.  
  
It was a magnificent explosion, the rumble starting deep in the bowels of the foundation, the walls and roof shuddering for a split second before crumbling inward. Rivers' flashscreen snapped down over his face, protecting his eyes from the bright glare, then Airwolf was caught in the fearsome concussion that followed the blast. The heavy gunship was swatted backward a hundred feet on a whirlwind of hot debris, and only Mike's skillful handling of the attitude controls prevented her from being broken apart like a child's toy then and there. Airwolf tumbled once ... twice ... then he had regained command and they were surfing the shock wave until he could bring her to a halt.  
  
"It went up!" Jo squeaked earning a disbelieving glance from Mike. She blushed at the obvious observation but was too worried to be acutely embarrassed. "I didn't see Saint John and the rest get out," she added more quietly, a tremor in her voice the harbinger of tears held barely at bay.  
  
Mike didn't answer. He set the great helicopter into motion, lifting to about sixty feet and resuming his search of the grounds. He made a wide, low circle to avoid the billowing smoke and dust that hung like a blanket over the immediate vicinity, frustration lining his boyish features. "I can't see anything," he complained, tensing when a thermal updraft nearly upended the ship again. "Are you picking up any life signs down there?"  
  
Jo bit her lip, forehead wrinkling with concentration as she studied the screen. "Epsilon Guard is holding their position in the front; they weren't anywhere near the building when it went up. Give me some more altitude and.... Ah!" There was satisfaction in her voice that communicated itself even through the mike.  
  
"'Ah,' what?" Mike demanded, having to gain another several yards to escape the dust blowing their way.  
  
Jo tapped her board, a move that was invisible to the pilot. "Six life forms directly below. Judging from the heartbeat, one of them is a child. That has to be Amy Newman, and that means that the others are Saint John, String and the rest."  
  
"We've got an extra 'rest,'" Mike remarked thoughtfully, touching a button on his helmet to lift the flashscreen; it slid up with a little click, leaving his face bare. "I wonder who else they've got with them?"  
  
"Only one way to find out!" Now that she knew her family was safe again, the tension in Jo's shapely body relaxed, a smile decorating her unpainted lips. "Let's go in and say hi!"  
  
Mike grinned in response, her happiness eminently and pleasingly contagious. He sobered almost immediately, head cocked to the side in a listening attitude. "Check your radar," he ordered quietly.  
  
"Why--?"  
  
"Just do it."  
  
Puzzled, Jo nonetheless obeyed. "Radar is clear, Mike. Is something wrong?"  
  
Mike's round face hardened, normally mischievous blue eyes carrying no hint of humor. "We've got company, honey. Go to full combat mode, lower the ADF pod."  
  
The woman's slim fingers played over her console, and there was a whirring noise from under Airwolf's belly. "Full combat mode," she reported a moment later. "All weapons operational. But I don't see...."  
  
"You will," the pilot returned curtly. "Riiiiight ... there!" He pointed triumphantly to the tip of a wide rotor just visible over the low hill to the west. Even as Jo looked, a camo-painted metal body gained altitude just enough to clear the hill, though not enough to activate Airwolf's radar system. "We got us a fox on the run."  
  
Jo shook her head wonderingly. "I don't know how you knew, but I'm certainly impressed." She typed the IDENT BOGY command into her keyboard, skimming the resultant information rapidly. "Huey Cobra combat helicopter, fast and maneuverable. Our friend over there has a mounted rocket launcher but no machine gun capability."  
  
Mike's eyes shone with the adrenalin rush he'd spoken of earlier. "That's probably Bishop Morris in the pilot's seat; Saint John said he flew choppers in Viet Nam. Open a channel to him." He grinned. "We'll give him a chance to surrender ... peacefully."  
  
Jo swallowed hard, less thrilled than he was with the possibility of another fight. Both hands and voice, however, were perfectly steady as she adjusted the frequency to a wide band and hailed the other helicopter. "Airwolf calling enemy Cobra. Land immediately and surrender yourself."  
  
There was a pause, then a rough masculine voice responded, the guttural cursing all too clear even through the speakers. "I know that's not a woman flying that thing," was the first printable phrase. "Is that you, Hawke?"  
  
Mike's lips drew back, his eyes narrowing and growing hard as gemstone. "Not quite. You Morris?"  
  
"Knew it wasn't no woman," the other said, increasing speed and altitude, then turning until the Cobra and Airwolf were nose to nose. "Yeah, I'm Bishop Morris. I wuz looking to be taking down Saint John or that Golden Boy kid brother of his."  
  
Mike shook his head regretfully. "I'm afraid you're going to have to settle. Now we're asking you real nice, Bishop. Put your chopper down and give yourself up. There's no way that bathtub toy of yours is going to take us."  
  
The cruel laugh was almost simultaneous with the flash of light from the Cobra's right side. Reflexes reacted instantly, and Mike yawed Airwolf to the side, allowing the rocket to streak by. It slammed into the earth a quarter of a mile away, sending up a geyser of gray desert dirt.  
  
Even while Mike was evading the deadly missile, Morris was putting his chopper into gear. He revolved on his Y-axis and sped off, nudging the Cobra toward her top speed.  
  
"That direction will take him right over Las Vegas," Jo reported after she'd caught her breath from the near miss. "Funny, I'd've expected him to head for Mexico or something."  
  
Rivers took Airwolf up to a thousand feet and headed her likewise toward the great gambling mecca. "He knows he can't outfly Airwolf. He's either hoping to lose us in the more crowded air lanes, or ditch the chopper and disappear into a crowd somewhere."  
  
"We'd better stop him before he gets there," Jo said, running a computer simulation. "If he makes it to a populated area, we won't be able to use our own missiles. I doubt he's going to have the same compunction."  
  
Morris decided to oblige them at least temporarily. He too increased altitude even as Mike was dropping to intercept. The Cobra rose, stalled and pitched to the right, accelerating even as the next rocket fired. Once again Mike simply tapped the control stick, tilting the black gunship a few degrees only. To an observer, the maneuver would have appeared lazy and effortless, like a toreador playing with a bull before the final kill.  
  
"Olé," Jo muttered irritatedly from her seat in the rear. "If that thing had been guided we'd be space dust right now."  
  
"No way," the pilot retorted, his tone betraying the fact that he was enjoying himself hugely. "Leave it to Mikey, darlin'. He's the expert."  
  
"'Mikey' gets a punch in the jaw when we land," Jo growled although she was inaudible even through the sensitive microphone. Despite her fear she had to smile at the boyish enthusiasm in her teammate; however critical their situation, Mike Rivers could always be counted on to meet it head first and with a genuine zeal.  
  
Rivers didn't linger for the third then fourth rockets to reach them. Even as Morris was launching them in an attempt at catching the more powerful ship in a blanket, auxiliary turbines were roaring to life, slamming both pilot and engineer back in their seats. Airwolf accelerated from a stationary pattern to near the speed of sound in less than a minute, leaving the unguided missiles to waste their charge in the uncaring ground. She overshot the Cobra in seconds, cut power and reversed, machine guns chattering, to stitch the capable military craft with lead.  
  
"Put it down, Morris," Mike ordered in a bored tone. "We can do this all day if we have to."  
  
"Maybe you can, fly boy," the black enemy pilot sneered back, "but can those people below us?"  
  
"What the--?" Mike glanced down, his jaw dropping to find the two helicopters dancing their pas de deux over what appeared to be a brand new suburban development. "We're still too far for that to be part of Vegas, and none of our charts are showing a town down there."  
  
Jo typed in another command, switching from on-board charts to the satellite navigational system they could tap on demand. "Those townhouse developments are popping up practically overnight -- those are only two months old. I should have double-checked the area before we got here."  
  
More sober than before, Mike again accessed Morris' radio band. "You don't really want to take out women and children, do you?" he asked, expression revealing that the question was more formality than interrogative.  
  
"Isn't that red building a school with little kiddies?" Knowing he had the upper hand, Morris tipped his Cobra into a nose-down attitude, the rockets now aimed at the school. His unspoken message was clear though he vocalized it anyway, cruel glee in his tones. "Kiddies for Bishop. What do you say, Airwolf?"  
  
Mike sighed. "Not much to say, Morris. You got me. We will back off and give you your chance to escape." Without waiting for a reply, he banked sharply and again applied the turbos, setting the gunship into a shallow dive that carried it quickly over the horizon and out of sight.  
  
"Tell Vidor's Golden Boys it's not over," Morris shot after them by way of a parting. He waited until the ship had disappeared, then angled his own craft, also staying low out of radar range of Las Vegas airport's Air Traffic Control. Moving as fast as he could and keeping one eye on his rear for signs of pursuit, Bishop sped due south, skirting the city although not avoiding the populated areas entirely.  
  
Ten minutes later he was skimming at tree top level above another of the myriad developments bordering Las Vegas. "Looks like I lost them," he breathed in relief, gaining a little altitude to avoid a bridge across a minor gorge bisecting the highway.  
  
The words were spoken just seconds too soon. From under the bridge a great black shadow detached itself, rising like a winged creature straight up into the sky. The distinctive wail of powerful turbines filled the air with power, even as Airwolf leveled out of her climb less than a score of yards from the hurtling Cobra.  
  
"Say good-night, Gracie," Mike Rivers breathed into the microphone, as his finger tightened on the red button on his stick. There was a flash from Airwolf's belly with the release of a short-range Sparrow from the newly repaired armaments firing pod. Launch and impact were almost synchronous, the powerful little missile taking off the Cobra's tail rotor as cleanly as if with a razor. Without a stabilizer, the chopper began to spin even as it dropped, gaining velocity before it hit the bottom of the gorge. It bounced once and splintered, pieces falling into the swiftly moving river at the very base.  
  
Mike and Jo watched silently, faces grim. "He didn't know we were fast enough to get in front of him around the edge of the horizon," Jo murmured, still having trouble believing that herself.  
  
Mike reversed their course and increased their speed, tapping the turbos and heading them back toward Horn's estate at Mach 1. "Notify the police to recover the body," he said quietly. "We have more important things to do -- like go back for our friends."  
  
*** 


	36. Chapter 36

Several seconds after detonation, thunder still reverberated from the distant hills, its longevity confirmation of the magnitude of the explosion that had spawned it. The dust cloud was thick and choking but already starting to disperse under the influence of the brisk zephyrs that blew in off the surrounding desert. Michael, first out the door and farthest from the building when it went up, was also the first to stir, albeit sluggishly. One hand instinctively felt for the half-darkened and manifestly indestructible glasses that had been flung from his face by his precipitous flight across the grounds. They were mercifully near his questing fingers, covered with dirt but otherwise undamaged. He placed them gently back onto the bridge of his less-intact nose, then scrabbled for the dropped assault rifle, old training guiding his fingers to the stock as if they were homed.  
  
Thus armed, he rolled over onto his back and sat up, groaning aloud at the effort this put on his battered torso and abdomen. Having achieved this goal, he patted his stomach ruefully and spat dirt out of his mouth, peering into the thinning dust cloud in all directions. He was sitting on the far edge of the paved driveway that looped around the right hand side of the house past the barracks wing; the tidy garden started about twenty feet away with a line of ornamental boulders to border it. A glance confirmed the transformation of the elaborate mansion into a pile of rubble; the building seemed to have collapsed from the middle, the walls falling inward in what looked to be a controlled implosion. The destruction was so complete that they would be hard put to even locate the remaining bodies under the timbers and stone.  
  
By his left hand a small figure stirred. Briggs reached out to pat a curly head soothingly. "Are you all right, Amy?"  
  
Amy Newman snuffled then wiggled around to face him, brown eyes bright in her smudged face. "I'm okay. Are you hurt, Uncle Michael? You're not, are you?"  
  
He smiled at her tone; this wasn't the first time he'd been the recipient of a childish crush. "Not at all. I--" Something rustled in the bushes off to their left then stopped; Michael stiffened and casually aimed the rifle in that direction although his expression would have betrayed nothing even if it could have been seen through the still billowing ground-level dirt. "Need you to do something for me," he told the child in a low voice. "See that rock right there?" He gestured to the five-foot puce colored boulder nearest them. "I want you to run as fast as you can and hide way down under that rock where you won't be seen."  
  
Big brown eyes filled with tears, juvenile pluck ebbing now that she had a protector. "I want to stay with you," she whined, taking his hand.  
  
He smiled, turning the charm that had won her over, up several notches. "I'll be right back. Now.... Go!" She went, scurrying across the short distance to huddle in a little hollow carved out of the base of the indicated boulder. Seeing her safely out of the line of fire and keeping his own weapon trained on the garden, Michael crabbed backwards toward his felled companions. He found Horn first; the industrialist lay face down several feet to the rear, face and expensive clothes caked with dirt; his eyes were closed although his breathing was regular.  
  
Michael spared him barely a glance before continuing on several yards farther, where three men lay sprawled in a tangle amid a scattershot pattern of debris from the blast. One figure, identifiable by his size as Saint John Hawke, lay half on top of the other two in a vain attempt at shielding them. He was already stirring, a harsh cough wrenched from him as he rolled over and up.  
  
"Who...?" he asked, staring at the grimy, blond-haired agent squatting next to him. "Archangel?"  
  
"Not looking quite so cherubic at the moment," Briggs gibed, single eye still scanning the terrain; the dust was now clear enough to see shapes smaller than the massive boulders and vague brush. "We need to get out of the open. This area may not be secured."  
  
The older Hawke wiped his face on the gray sleeve of his flightsuit and leaned over the two still-prone men, touching each on the shoulder. "Dom? String? You two okay?"  
  
A low Italian curse greeted the hail. Dominic Santini flopped feebly then cursed again. "Yer layin' on my arm, String," he complained, giving the younger man a poke. "An' about half my chest."  
  
"Sorry," came the mumbled reply. Stringfellow lifted his head wearily, as though it were too heavy for him, and risked a semi-deep breath, aborting the attempt with a little gasp. "We're still alive?"  
  
"Not fer long if you don't get off'a my arm," Santini snapped in a stronger voice. He waited until the younger man slid to the side, then allowed Saint John to pull him into a sitting position; small pieces of stone and wood fell from his back to mingle with those already covering the immediate area. "Well, that was a gas. Why don't we try for an A-bomb next time to make it really interesting?"  
  
The sound of gunfire came from the direction of the rustling bushes, although not aimed in their direction. Michael stiffened and lifted up into a crouch, bringing his own rifle to his shoulder in a sniper's pose, while Saint John grabbed up the MAC-11 and approximated his action on Santini's far side. "This is interesting enough for me," the blond agent gritted. "Hawke ... Stringfellow, can you move?"  
  
The brown head nodded, Stringfellow dragging himself to his knees as proof. He wobbled dizzily, barely able to hold himself upright, but gamely hooked an elbow through Santini's, and forced himself to his feet using Michael's shoulder for support. "I-I'll get Dom ... over there," he murmured through clenched teeth. "Cover us."  
  
"Hey! I can--" Santini began, his words cut off when he was well and truly ignored. While Briggs and the older Hawke brother stalked cautiously toward the bushes, Santini was dragged like a sack of grain away from the open ground surrounding the ruins of the house and past Horn's immobile body. He helped as best he could but his atrophied muscles had long since reached the end of their tolerance, his weight the equivalent of an anchor to the younger man. By the time they'd reached the shelter of the rocks, String was panting for air that didn't seem to want to come, his forehead beaded with sweat; he collapsed to his knees, one arm wrapped around his ribs.  
  
"Uncle Dom!" Amy called, not moving from her position in the little hollow.  
  
Santini gave her a wave, his attention focused on the barely conscious pilot. "You okay, kid?" he asked quietly, gently cupping Hawke's parchment white cheek.  
  
He got a vague nod in return, and the muttered, "Need to help Saint John." Blinking his dull eyes clear of dust-generated tears, Stringfellow began the long crawl back toward the clearing.  
  
Santini made a failed snatch for his arm as he passed. "You need to sit-- Idiot!"  
  
That last was called after the young man's retreating form, but Stringfellow didn't stop. He worked his way back to their former position from which point he could see both Michael and his brother slithering toward the bushes on their bellies. There would be no shooting, he knew, until the two were able to identify those on the other side. String hoped with all his soul it was Epsilon Guard moving in the area -- the darkness was fast closing in on him, consciousness fading in stages; the effect was curiously like entering a rapidly narrowing tunnel. His final reserves were long gone and only the fear of leaving Saint John and Michael without support kept him moving at all. Even that wouldn't last much longer.  
  
Hawke retrieved the dropped Browning High Power from where it had been tossed by the explosion; it felt light in his experienced hand, a sure sign that ammunition was depleted. "Dom's gun is here somewhere," he muttered, remembering the glint of metal falling out of Santini's waistband a few moments earlier. "He should have some shots left."  
  
A fast search of the immediate area turned up nothing although one startling fact did slowly penetrate the fog filling his brain: the body of John Bradford Horn was gone. "Dom," he breathed, eyes widening with terror. "I have to get to Dom!"  
  
Abandoning stealth in favor of speed, Hawke climbed laboriously back to his feet and limped rapidly back to the rocks, passing a still huddled Amy without a second glance. He burst through the sheltering line of rock, pistol at the fore, determined that this time there would be no mercy -- at the slightest sign of threat, John Bradford Horn would die as he was meant to -- by Stringfellow Hawke's hand. He looked around frantically then stopped, feeling his heart freeze in his chest. "Let him go," he growled, fear making his voice tremble.  
  
The urbanity that had cloaked Horn even more fully than his Versace suits had long been ripped from him; his handsome face was twisted with malevolence, fury suffusing his fair cheeks with red. He stood erect, back protected by a second rock; one arm held a sagging Dominic Santini in front of him as a shield, in the other hand Horn gripped Dominic's dropped pistol, the bore clapped firmly against the old man's temple. "It's not over for me yet, Hawke," he snarled, hate-filled but not yet out of control. "Drop your gun."  
  
"Get out of here, String," Santini grunted, thrashing impotently in the other man's strong grip. "It's too late for me -- save yourself."  
  
To Stringfellow Hawke, abandoning Dominic Santini again was not even an option. To drop the Browning meant that Horn would kill them both; this Hawke knew with every fiber of his being. But could he risk Dom's life by not obeying the clear threat? Experience having long taught him the futility of attempting to assuage a man like this, Hawke lifted the gun higher, bracing it with his other hand; he would get only one shot ... if he could make it. Horn's image was beginning to waver in and out alarmingly, the tunnel narrowing until his field of vision ranged at only a few inches on either side of the man. "Let him go, Horn," he ordered, dismayed to hear the weakness in his voice. "Or you're a dead man."  
  
The industrialist studied him back through shrewd eyes. "Your hands are shaking," he pointed out with malicious glee. "What a shame it would be for a misfire to kill your friend."  
  
Hawke drew in a sharp breath, feeling the sweat running down the side of his face. Horn was right -- his hands were shaking too badly to aim the pistol, and his vision was gone. Collapse was only minutes away at best. "I'll take you down if it's the last thing I do," he swore, swallowing hard and knowing the bluff didn't work when the man's handsome face broke into a wide grin.  
  
"Watching your friend die is the last thing you'll do," he snarled, and tightened his finger on the trigger.  
  
Hawke's cry came simultaneous with the thunderous blast, the knowledge that he was watching Santini die choking away his own life. "I'm sorry," he whimpered, some portion of his brain registering something wrong with the report -- the angle was off, the volume too loud. But those details could mean nothing to a man whose heart was breaking. He again forced the weapon to bear on the two blurry images in front of him, both of which were in the process of falling. His finger was tightening on his own trigger when a powerful hand closed over his forearm, forcing the gun down toward the earth.  
  
"It's all right." Michael Briggs stood there eying him concernedly, the AK- 47 he carried dropping to his side after a rapid scan of the exposed terrain. "You're safe."  
  
"Dom...."  
  
"I'm okay, kid." The gruff tones ... they could only belong to one man. They came from several yards off, where Hawke could barely make out the motion of someone disentangling himself from another, inert, form. "Michael got him right between the eyes."  
  
"Dom's alive?" Hawke stared stupidly back at the blond agent, the concept having trouble penetrating. "Is he...?" There was a pause that lasted a million years, then Michael's acknowledgement was the last thing he heard before the tunnel narrowed to a pinprick and took him away.  
  
Reflexes slow but still operative, Briggs caught the collapsing man around the waist, almost but not quite losing his hold on the assault rifle in the process. He stood there for a moment, staring down at Hawke as though he didn't know what to do with him, then shook his head tiredly. "Guess he deserves the rest," he muttered at last, earning a grunt from a now sitting Santini. It was a struggle, but Michael managed to lower both himself and the other to the ground without straining his injured knee any more than it had been, too exhausted by now to make any attempt at freeing himself from the limp form or even to care that the younger man was practically in his lap. He remained sitting where he was, leaning forward to brace himself against Hawke, who had somehow ended up propped on his shoulder. The rifle he placed at his side, within easy reach should a quick snatch be necessary.  
  
From a dozen feet away, Dominic watched this process with concern. Finally managing to escape Horn's death grip, he scooted a few feet from the ghastly body. The industrialist's eyes were open, fixed in ultimate surprise on the unclouded sky, a neat, nearly bloodless hole drilled precisely between them. Dom glanced at him briefly, long enough to make sure the man was dead, then dismissed him without any reaction save a satisfied nod. "Is String okay?" he demanded, returning his attention to his companions.  
  
Completely spent in both mind and body, Michael allowed himself to droop forward until his forehead rested against Hawke's hair; without the younger man's counterbalancing weight he would surely have fallen over himself. "Yeah," he mumbled, flopping the arm still draped loosely around Hawke's waist by way of elaboration. "Terrific."  
  
His scarred face puckering, Dominic eyed them both doubtfully. Michael, dirty, unshaven and disheveled, was barely recognizable as the dapper government agent they usually dealt with; String half-lay against him, head back and tilted to the side against Michael's chest, limbs sprawled without grace. "I think I want to see for myself," Santini decided with some alarm.  
  
"Fine," came the nearly inaudible reply. "But you're going to have to come over here, because I'm not even going to try to move either of us."  
  
Santini snorted but started forward. His aged, badly damaged body refused to obey him without a struggle, and it took nearly two minutes for the older pilot to crawl the dozen feet to his companions' side. Wheezing loudly, he drew himself into a sitting position facing Briggs, and took Hawke's slack jaw in one hand, tipping it up to reveal his face. "Kid's really out for the count," he said, carefully not disturbing Archangel's tenuous equilibrium. "How are you feeling, Michael?"  
  
The agent sighed deeply. "'Bout like I look."  
  
"That's too bad." The quip went unnoticed, and Dominic's budding smile faded. He touched the blond agent on the arm. "You saved my life, pal. Thanks."  
  
Briggs turned his head just enough to peek at Santini out of his one eye. "Tell it to Hawke when he wakes up," he replied, tapping the pilot on the chest. "It just may keep him from ripping me apart for putting you in danger at all."  
  
Santini smiled, indomitable humor returning somewhat now that the danger was over. "Kid wouldn't do that to you. He kind'a likes you ... for some reason."  
  
The mock surly tones didn't elicit the response they'd been intended to. Briggs sighed again and shut his eye. "That's past tense now," he mumbled to himself. Movement roused him to one last effort at awareness, and he opened his eye again, even as Santini smiled wider, his greeting for the large-framed, silver uniformed man who hunkered down between them.  
  
"I heard a shot from over here. What happened?" Saint John eyed the trio critically, relaxing slightly upon finding no sign of fresh blood.  
  
Dom pounded him on the back, overjoyed all over again at this living reminder that his foster son was back after fifteen years! "Michael just took out the trash," he replied, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at Horn's body. "Good to see you, boy, good to see you!"  
  
Saint John smiled back, offering a quick, one-armed hug. "You, too, Dom." He released the old man to wrap his fingers around his brother's wrist, seeking the pulse. "Benzedrine finally gave out, eh?" he commented, next checking the younger man's widely dilated pupils.  
  
"I suppose so. And the three of us are going to have a talk about that," Santini stated flatly, his voice full of old remembered promises of stern lectures and swatted backsides.  
  
Fighting the urge to grin anyway, Saint John busied himself with reaching into his pocket for the small radio. "Airwolf, this is Hawke. Jo, are you there?"  
  
"Jo?" Dominic sat up very straight, his jaw dropping. "Joanna? My niece? What is she doing in my bird?"  
  
"Bringing it back here, I hope," the older Hawke returned in his mild tone. They both looked up as the familiar wail of powerful turbines filled the sky; Michael did not move -- from all indications, he looked to be asleep, still leaning against String. Even as they watched, a black dot appeared out of the sun; it grew larger, resolving into the deadly black death machine the United States Government had dubbed Airwolf. It swooped low over the ruins of the building, then circled their position once. Saint John raised a hand in greeting, and the helicopter settled to earth on the tarmac some yards away. Two figures emerged, the smaller one doffing the black helmet and descending like a blonde whirlwind on the waiting group.  
  
"Uncle Dom!" Jo called, breaking her stride long enough to kiss Saint John's cheek. She then flew at Santini, threw both arms around him and hugged him tight, her happiness erasing the worry lines that had appeared around her eyes and mouth of late. "Uncle Dom, I'm so glad to see you! Have you been here the whole time? Did they treat you well? Are you all right?"  
  
He held up a hand to stop the eager rush, his own brown eyes shining. "Questions later, Jo, including what you're doing flying around in my Lady. And who he is." He scowled at Mike Rivers, who waggled his fingers amiably back. He looked around expectantly. "Is Cait with you?"  
  
As if on cue, a tan CHiPs helicopter appeared over the horizon. Jo pointed at it with one finger. "That should be her now. She'll be as glad to see you as we are!"  
  
Now standing, Saint John accepted Mike's handshake, then nodded at Airwolf. "You'd better contact Locke and have him arrange for a medivac out of here. These three need a hospital."  
  
"So do some of Epsilon Guard," the younger man replied. "Stretchers are already on their way."  
  
"Then there's nothing for us to do but wait," Saint John decided, seating himself contentedly between his brother and Dominic, who was holding Jo's hand. "And for once, waiting is something I don't even mind."  
  
*** 


	37. Chapter 37

His first impression was a feeling of incredible well-being. There was no pain anywhere at this moment, not even discomfort, but only a curious lassitude that was too comfortable -- too natural -- to be the result of opiates. The desire to drift off again was overwhelming, but Stringfellow fought it although making no effort to rise. The room was pleasantly warm, the sheets cool and crisp, the bed soft enough to make the concept of leaving it immediately an undesirable one. He sighed contentedly, a sharp 'ping' from his ribs shocking him out of the lethargy to a semi-aware state. Forcing himself to relax, he began to take stock of his body, only now becoming aware of the background throbbing located just behind his eyes, and the subtle ache in his ribs and stomach that warned of stiff muscles that would make themselves known with the first attempt at movement. He twitched his hands, regretting it instantly when the skin on his palms responded by trailing a diluted brand of vitriol through his nervous system. Not as bad as it was, he accepted, not yet stopping to wonder precisely how it 'was.' These were physical pains and easily ignorable, especially since his stomach did not so much as quiver when he repeated his attempt at taking a breath. The nausea that had been a constant companion for ... he couldn't remember how long ... was gone. That alone made everything else bearable.  
  
Satisfied he was at least reasonably sound, and feeling delightfully clear headed, the secondary questions of where he was and how he got here began to present themselves. He allowed curiosity to motivate him to open his eyes, finding himself staring at a dim fluorescent bulb set in a white- painted ceiling. Moving only his eyes he glanced from side to side, scanning a sterile looking room decorated in the universal, utilitarian style of a medical facility. Something glinted dully on the left, a plastic bag filled with some colorless fluid; he traced the tubing down to where it disappeared under a small band-aid on his arm, languor replaced instantly by a thrill of very real fear. What kind of drugs were they feeding into him? And who were 'they'? I hate hospitals, he thought with mounting panic. Spent too much time in them already. If this really is a hospital and not a--  
  
He gasped, the preceding week slamming down with sledgehammer force. Not a hospital -- a laboratory! Drugs, Horn and ... Dom?  
  
He gritted his teeth and lifted his head a few inches, the background throbbing increasing exponentially then settling back to tolerable levels. He squinted hard and was soon able to make out a first-floor window to his right; the view was that of a manicured lawn bordered by wide-boughed trees, the very edge of a parking lot visible in the extreme corner of the pane. Hawke dropped his head back to the pillow, aesthetics taking a back seat to another frightening fact: pretty as the view was, he'd never seen it before in his life. This wasn't one of the local hospitals he'd frequented in the past several years, and this wasn't Marty Bergman's clinic. He didn't know where he was or how he'd gotten here, and if he could trust the memories continuing to rush back at a confusing rate, that was a very bad sign indeed.  
  
If he could trust them.  
  
How long had it been since he'd been able to trust what his senses were telling him, or what his brain asserted to be true? Angelica, as beautiful and pure as any artist's Madonna, had been a deceitful Siren, using his infrequently exposed heart to lure him into her father's trap. Once there, John Bradford Horn had finished the job, warping loyalties past and present and reshaping them to his own designs. Worst of all, though, had been Anastasia Zarkov. Attractive and deadly, it had been her manipulations that had stolen from him that which he treasured the most -- the memories of his brother -- replacing them with an obsession wearing a stranger's face. Much of his world had been clouded since then, drugged into obscurity, his self-confidence shaken enough to force him to rely on others to anchor him into what he was constrained to accept as reality.  
  
But were his so-called friends any more trustworthy? Hawke swallowed hard and turned to re-examine one of the most horrifying moments of his life, watching what he'd thought was Dominic Santini suffocating in a metal coffin. Michael had told him it was all a lie, that that hadn't been Dom at all, and String had chosen to believe him, for the alternative was too unbearable to contemplate ... or to carry. Over the years there'd developed a kind of trust between them, the friendship a vulnerability that Hawke had not only permitted but prized, little though he would ever have admitted it even to himself. Aware of that rare faith, the blond agent had used it as well. Some part of him conceded that Michael's motives weren't malicious -- that they were even partly motivated by concern for him, but even then the deception still hurt. Still, if the latter part of his memories were correct ... if Michael really had saved Dom's life, then Hawke would gladly forgive him anything and everything up to and including the lie.  
  
He closed his eyes again, refocusing within, searching his memory, thoughts and senses again. He lifted his hand, clenching the fingers, accepting the pain this caused as genuine. This was his anchor -- he existed. He lived, breathed, thought -- he was. This was always my foundation in the past, he told himself, inside of me, not out. There was no longer a cloud over his thoughts; he sensed that his system was clear of drugs, neither the ... concussion...? He gingerly touched his temple, wincing at the bruise there. ... neither concussion nor exhaustion sapping his faculties any longer.  
  
He concentrated, conjuring up an image that had been lost to him for a long time -- a tall, broad-shouldered man with bronze hair, sharp blue-gray eyes and a long jaw. He studied it warily, fearing to find another image overlapping it -- that of a short, much older man with gray hair and a very square chin. The blessedly single image that remained continued to instill in Stringfellow Hawke feelings of fraternal warmth and comfort that could not possibly have been generated by any man except one: Saint John Hawke, his brother.  
  
That means this has to be real, he decided at long last, embracing the relief that washed over him so strongly as to take away his breath. I can accept my perceptions again. I can trust myself! He frowned, one final flicker of doubt clinging tenaciously despite everything. I would like just one piece of proof. If I can just see Dom and Saint John again, I'll know everything is all right. Nothing else will matter if I can just see that they're alive.  
  
But how to accomplish this? Opening himself wide to the outside world, he extended his extraordinarily acute hearing to the full; even through the closed door he could hear people moving about, voices pitched at conversational levels, the low clank of metal on metal. As a prisoner at Horn's estate, the soundproofed walls had permitted no outside noises to filter into the cells except for the irritating hum of the electronic locks. Everything here was all noises associated with a real hospital, and there was no hum. That in itself helped reduce some of the anxiety even if comfort was a very long way away.  
  
Shelving his dread in favor of action, he again opened his eyes and gave the room a second scan. Escape must be a priority now -- escape and finding Dom. He could continue this voyage of self-discovery once they were all safe. His bandaged hands making dexterity a little difficult, he nevertheless succeeded in pulling the IV needle out of his arm, a few spots of blood trickling to stain the loose blue pajama bottoms and hospital smock some unknown had dressed him in. He sat up, an unexpected wave of dizziness spilling him sideways against the headboard. He leaned against it, breathing heavily, his ribs sending sharp warnings through his chest. A moment later his head cleared and he swung his feet to the tiled floor, again nearly falling when his previously damaged ankle balked at supporting his weight.  
  
"Not exactly my day," he grumbled, testing his foot again more gingerly. This time it held him although not without aching protest. Moving slowly, he gave the room a cursory search, disappointed to find it more than a bit barren; he'd hoped someone had at least stowed his clothes somewhere accessible. A man walking around in hospital pajamas was guaranteed to attract a few stares.  
  
Accepting the inevitable, Stringfellow next padded silently in bare feet to the closed door, cracking it open and hitching one eye around the jamb. To the right he could see several white uniformed men and women scurrying busily about whatever duties they'd been assigned. Some carried charts, others trays, at least two wore stethoscopes dangling from their necks. Of guards there was no sign ... at least, no visible sign.  
  
Very cautiously he turned his head to the left ... and found himself face to face with a mustached blond man who, judging from his upraised hand, had been preparing to enter the room at that very moment!  
  
Hawke yelped involuntarily, battle trained reflexes catapulting him backward out of the man's reach. He made to assume an offensive stance but misjudged both his velocity and the amount of strain his ankle was willing to take. It twisted, landing him on the floor staring up, as the intruder completed his original intention, pushing open the door and stepping inside.  
  
"That was an interesting exhibition." Michael Coldsmith-Briggs leaned heavily on a silver headed walking stick, white teeth flashing under his mustache in a broad grin. "I don't think the Chinese Circus is looking for any more acrobats, but I'll be sure and put in a good word for you."  
  
Too shaken to react to the humor, Hawke could do nothing except sit where he was and stare up at the blond agent. Save for a slightly swollen nose protected by a small bandage, Michael certainly showed few outward signs of the ordeal they'd been through; impeccably dressed as usual in white suit, vest and shirt, blond hair neatly groomed, he looked more like a model for Gentlemen's Quarterly than the effective and deadly Deputy Director for the secret organization usually referred to as the Firm. Michael's presence should have been heartening, but too much had happened too fast for Hawke to assimilate it all. They could both still be prisoners despite the ease with which the agent had entered. "Michael," he managed, only the faintest tremor coming through his tone. He glanced warily past the agent into the hallway; a doctor and nurse passed by, heads held close in confidential talk and paying not the slightest attention to them. "Are-- Where are we?"  
  
His distress must have registered on the older man, for Briggs' grin faded, amusement turning into reassurance. "This is a private sanitorium just outside Los Angeles," he said, bracing himself on one leg and offering his hand. "The Firm uses it to treat operatives who need non- and post- surgical medical attention."  
  
Hawke considered him for several seconds, while Briggs endured the scrutiny patiently, showing no sign of hurry. Finally, Hawke reached up to accept the offered assistance, stopping just in time when he saw the new bandages around his palms. The pain in his hands had muted to a dull aching that matched that in his head, quite forgotten once the decision to act had been made. He turned his hand over, offering Briggs an apologetic little shrug.  
  
"I'd forgotten about those burns myself," Michael said easily, leaning a little forward and hooking his fingers under Hawke's shoulder instead.  
  
"It's nothing." With the other's assistance, Stringfellow struggled to his feet, dismissing his wounds with another slight lift of his shoulder. They too were a subject to be dealt with in a more secure place. Escape and finding Dominic were the only important things to consider right now. He did pause, however, to study the older man closely. "You look all right," he determined at last. "Did Horn--?" Uncomfortable, he spread one hand, blue eyes asking the question he could not.  
  
Archangel, fortunately, was a long time master at the art of reading minds. "Did Horn brainwash me?" he translated the gesture accurately. "No, Stringfellow, Angelica appeared before Dr. Zarkov was able to progress beyond her ... 'softening up' stage." He shuddered, and Hawke had no trouble imagining what that 'softening up' stage consisted of; he'd been through it himself. "I ..." He tapped his left thigh. "... am simply here for a check-up and to schedule additional therapy so I can get this blasted leg brace removed." He grinned again. "I decided to check in on you. You've been sleeping for nearly two days."  
  
"Two days?!" At the blond's nod, Hawke braced an arm around his ribs, thoughts swirling maddeningly. "I can't have been here for two days. I have to.... I mean...." He fixed Michael's one blue eye with a defiant stare, a muscle leaping in his jaw, his stomach feeling like a lead weight was sitting in it. This was it -- everything on the line. "Michael, we have to find Dom."  
  
Briggs' eye widened behind his lens. He pursed his lips and turned to the still ajar door, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps you're right," he said at last. "We should make finding Santini a priority."  
  
Hawk heaved a sigh of relief. "Then you'll help me?"  
  
Another pause and Michael nodded. "I'll help you. Can you walk?"  
  
Walk? He'd run through an artillery barrage if it meant saving Dom! "I'll manage," he swore, limping forward a few steps in proof. "Do you know where Dom is?"  
  
Michael stuck his head into the hallway, peered in both directions and made a beckoning gesture with one hand. Hawke followed him out, breath beginning to come faster as adrenalin pumped into his body, preparing him to react to any threat that would come their way. Discreetly, they stepped out into the corridor, a few of the nurses sending them curious looks. Michael ignored them, proceeding two paces forward then stepping to the side and turning toward Hawke. "I think I just found Dominic," he announced, lifting one arm in a flourish.  
  
Hawke glanced at him, puzzled, then followed the pointing finger. There, not a dozen feet away and resting comfortably in a wheelchair was.... "Dom!" The exclamation was ripped from his throat, breath snatched away. For the second time that day the blackness nearly reclaimed him, shock turning his knees to something akin to jelly. He stared, blinked, and stared harder, but the apparition remained comfortingly substantial.  
  
"String!" Santini's seamed face creased even further in a wide grin, making the scar tissue under his jaw and on his cheek pucker. "String, boy, it's about time you woke up! Didn't I tell you it would be any minute now?" This last was addressed over his shoulder, and it was only then that Hawke noticed the two other people in attendance, the male tall and bronze- haired, the woman petite, blonde and china skinned.  
  
"I'd say you called this one, Dom." Saint John Hawke smiled his own welcome and pushed the wheelchair until they were only a few feet from the astounded man; Stringfellow was glad of that -- he doubted he could have moved a single step. "Good to see you vertical again, brother. We were starting to worry, weren't we,al Jo?"  
  
"I should say we were," the woman stated firmly, though her pretty face was split by her own warm smile. "The doctors said you would be fine, but when you didn't wake up...." She spread both hands in an open, Italian gesture her uncle used often.  
  
String was aware of her and Saint John both, he could feel Michael moving closer to the trio. But he couldn't quite bring himself to tear his eyes away from Dominic Santini's brown ones. This was the confirmation he needed and the reality he'd craved: his brother and foster father -- the firm bases on which he'd built his young life. "It's really you, isn't it, Dom," he said softly, not in question but because the words tasted so sweet in his mouth. "You're really alive."  
  
Santini smiled wider and patted his chest. "In the flesh, kid. A little less of me, maybe, but enough."  
  
Enough. Yes. String swallowed hard, his breath coming out in a little sob. Heedless of aches, he dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around Santini's bone-thin middle, resting his head against the old man's shoulder as he had when he'd been a child; Dom slid forward to meet him, pulling him into a tight embrace and hanging on with every bit of his strength. "M-missed you, you old chopper jockey," he choked out gruffly.  
  
"I missed you, you crazy, snot-nosed kid," Santini retorted in his ear. The angle of his voice shifted, and String knew he was glancing at the blond agent behind. "I told Michael you might need an old cripple around for a while longer yet. Glad to see I was right."  
  
String pulled back to regard him fondly, exchanging a look with his brother over Dom's shoulder. "A lot longer." He sniffed and wiped his face on the short sleeve of his tunic, using the opportunity to glance around the busy hallway. He still didn't see any weapons, but that didn't mean a thing where the Firm was concerned. With the advent of electronic surveillance and defense, human guards were little more than a luxury anyway. "Are we prisoners?" he asked, seeking information, the blond agent's assertions not easing his foreboding.  
  
Saint John placed a possessive hand on Santini's shoulder, his gray eyes full of that confident strength that had not eroded even in the midst of starvation, torture and imprisonment. "Not as long as I'm alive," he pronounced with utter surety.  
  
Jo looked troubled but added her voice to Saint John's. "You don't think this is a trap, do you, String? Or that we'd be part of it?"  
  
"Or that I'd actually lie to you about something like this?" Briggs' words carried a bitter irony in them more barbed than any retort, and when Hawke lifted his head to glance at him, although still huddling protectively in front of Santini, the agent offered a thin smile without humor. "It isn't necessary to mistrust everything I say, Hawke. I rarely splinter families without good reason."  
  
They stared at each other uncomfortably for several seconds, then Jo circled the wheelchair until she was standing beside Dom's left arm. "He's telling the truth, String. This is a private Company hospital called the Leas. You, Dom, Michael and the injured members of Epsilon Guard were airlifted here straight from Horn's estate."  
  
Dom fondly ruffled the hair along Hawke's neck, the gesture conveying a measure of the reassurance String still desperately craved. "Some of us are only here being measured for a new foot." He tapped his right leg. "I'm a little too old to hobble around on crutches all my life."  
  
"A prosthetic should enable you to lead a normal life again, Uncle Dom," Jo interjected cheerfully.  
  
Santini rolled his eyes. "Why don't I remember her being that perky," he growled, slapping the woman's brown sleeve in mock irritation. "And this one...!" He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to where Saint John was watching them with an expression of pacific benevolence. "He's already putting me through paces these so-called experts laughingly refer to as therapy. Sadism, that's what I call it!"  
  
"If you call building your heart and cardio-vascular system back up and exercising atrophied muscles 'sadism,'" Saint John returned unheatedly, "then I suppose you're right."  
  
String felt another thrill of fear go through him. Ignoring the discomfort from his hands, he remained in a kneeling position and gripped the old pilot's forearms as tightly as he could, staring earnestly into the seamed face. "Is there something wrong with your heart, Dom?" he asked, having to swallow hard before he could get the words out.  
  
Santini grimaced. "Nothing wrong with my ticker except I haven't used it much in three months. It'll be fine." He freed one of his arms from String's death grip, using it as a model might to display the gray pants and white shirt he wore. "Hey. I'm even being discharged today! Jo and Saint John came by to pick me up; we ran into Mr. Clean in Admissions, and decided to stop up and see if you were awake before we checked out." He shot Briggs a mischievous look. "Seems the Spotless Wonder here is in the market for a nose job."  
  
"I was rather fond of my original nose," the blond agent retorted, although String could still feel that single-eyed gaze boring into his back. "I was hoping to keep it for a while."  
  
Another vision filled Hawke's head, the last one before the blackness had claimed him, and he felt the constricting band across his chest ease just a bit. "You saved Dom's life," he said softly, at last looking up at the blond agent. Their eyes met, locked, held for a long moment, and String could see the depths of the regret there, something he'd never noticed before -- had never been capable of noticing before, perhaps. Once, Michael had been both friend and enemy with Saint John's well-being standing between them. He'd been the one on the other side; the Them Hawke had fought most of his life. But Saint John was rescued, and Dominic safe thanks to this man. Thanks to this friend? Was it truly something he could admit at long last? "We ... I owe you for that, Michael," he offered from his heart. "I won't forget."  
  
"Won't you?" Forgive and forget, Hawke interpreted.  
  
He faltered at the carefully neutral question, seeing how important it was to Briggs even beyond the stoic facade. Leave it to him to cut through the trappings and skewer the matter in the very heart. There, with Dom's arms around him, his family bracketing them on either side, feeling comforted for the first time in the better part of a lifetime, there he was able to extend the solace he was being given to another who needed it just as badly. "Maybe some things are better forgotten," he said at last, feeling Dom squeeze his shoulder.  
  
An odd tension seemed to seep out of Michael's sturdy body, a grateful smile lighting his handsome face. "Guess we'll have to chalk that one up to the record neither one of us is keeping," he replied, twirling his walking stick breezily.  
  
String grinned and turned back to the others, catching a fleeting, disapproving look on Saint John's face. It was gone as soon as it had appeared, leaving him to wonder if he'd seen it at all. There was no time to question though, for his legs were starting to cramp. He sighed and made to rise, trying twice before a laughing Saint John brushed past Briggs and hauled him physically upright.  
  
"Has anyone else noticed how graceful my kid brother is getting in his old age?" he remarked to the group at large, while setting Stringfellow on his feet. "Ready to go back to bed, buddy?"  
  
String pulled irritatedly out of his grip then had to snatch at Dom's wheelchair to maintain his balance. "I'm not going back to bed," he growled, glaring away Jo's half-hearted offer of assistance. "I'm going home."  
  
If he was expecting the woman to retreat, he'd reckoned without Jo Santini's own Italian fire. She pulled herself to her full five-foot, five- inch height, hands on her hips and blue eyes blazing. "You have spent almost two solid days unconscious!" she snapped. "You've taken drugs on top of a concussion and shock ..."  
  
"Ah-HA!" Dom interjected, scowling hugely. "I knew you were on something back at the estate!"  
  
"... and you're almost out on your feet now!" Jo's light soprano rose in volume until Santini fell silent, cowed, and even the usually unflappable Saint John stared open mouthed at her. String actually backed up a step before catching himself. "You're going back to bed until the doctors tell you you can go."  
  
Stringfellow flared then stopped; the strain in his adopted cousin's face showed too much concern for him to sustain his annoyance, and he was too exhausted to work up any righteous indignation anyway. He rubbed the new bruise where the IV had been inserted, meeting the woman's gaze tiredly. "I can't stay here, Jo," he stated quietly, hating the entreaty coming through his voice; it was too much like vulnerability, and he refused to ever allow that to show. "I just want to go home."  
  
Jo studied him in return, her temper disarmed by the lack of argument. She threw up her hands, addressing her complaint to the ceiling although now devoid of heat. "You've got to be the most stubborn person I've ever met!"  
  
"Amen," Archangel muttered just loud enough for all to hear, then smiled seraphically when String turned a glare in his direction.  
  
Dominic chuckled and ran a hand through his sparse gray hair. "Now she gets the picture!" he told Jo heartily. "You might as well give up, honey. I've always said that once that boy puts his mind to something there's no changing it. He's every bit as stubborn as Saint John ever was."  
  
The bronze-haired Saint John jerked upright in mild offense. "I've never been that bad in my life!" Ignoring Jo's snort, he straightened further, his long nose high. "I've always believed in the spirit of cooperation and harmony and...."  
  
"Awww, you're both a pair of stubborn...," Santini muttered, ending the matter. "Besides, String'll do better coming home with me, anyway. At least at home a man can rest. Not like these places where they wake you up in the middle of the night to shove a sleeping pill down your throat."  
  
"No good." Saint John interrupted what was building into a promising lecture on the evils of hospitals, by stepping forward, squeezing Santini's arm in one hand and placing another on String's shoulder. "He's coming home with me. Jo has been living in your house for months now, but I've got a recently vacated guest room available."  
  
"Mike moved back in with Wendy?" Jo guessed, winking at an interestedly listing Michael, who winked back.  
  
"Wendy ... or Kathleen," the older Hawke brother replied, managing to shrug without releasing either Dom or String. "All I know is, he moved out yesterday."  
  
Stringfellow sighed, hearing his inevitable fate and knowing that arguing was no longer going to do him any good. "Why don't I just go home?" he asked without any expectation whatsoever.  
  
Jo patted him solicitously, and String was now hard pressed to decide which he disliked more, her anger or her maternalism. "You're going to have to get used to the idea of staying over for a few days," she said in sugared tones. "For one thing, you're too weak to manage by yourself yet. For another, we're throwing Uncle Dom a big welcome back party the day after tomorrow, and you're invited."  
  
Hawke shot Dom a grin, leaning his back surreptitiously against the wall in what he hoped was a nonchalant enough attitude to conceal the fact he really was close to keeling over. If I don't hang on, they'll make me stay here, he thought with a shudder. I can't handle that, not now. I need to get out of here. Aloud, he said, "A party, eh? Sure you're up to doing a little swinging?"  
  
"Stick it in yer hat," Santini retorted with great dignity. "And aren't you talking a little cocky for someone walking around in his pajamas?"  
  
String looked down, actually aware of his lack of clothing for the first time. He snagged a passing nurse by the arm and demanded, "Where are my clothes?"  
  
The middle-aged nurse, five-foot ten and built like a full-back, looked the much slighter young man up and down coolly. "Patients are not permitted to wander the halls without doctor's permission."  
  
"I'm not wandering anywhere, lady," Hawke flared back, stubbornness lending him the strength to come to stiff, angry attention. "I'm leaving and I want my clothes."  
  
They glared at each other for a long moment. "Aren't you Stringfellow Hawke?" the woman asked, freeing her arm by the mere expedient of giving Hawke a solid push. "We heard about you." She ignored his surly grumble and spun on her heel. "If Doctor Sullivan says you can go, I'll personally bring you your clothes and your walking papers. If not, the next sponge bath you get will be my pleasure ... but not necessarily yours."  
  
String felt a blush rise in his cheeks. "What do you mean the next sponge bath?"  
  
The large woman's reply was an evil grin. "Wait in your room while I get the doctor. He'll probably be about fifteen minutes, and I personally doubt you can stand up that long."  
  
Michael stroked his soft mustache to cover the grin that Hawke saw anyway. "I'll clear your release with Administration. Sullivan may be feeling suicidal and refuse to sign you out, you never know."  
  
He strolled off in the nurse's wake, leaving Hawke alone with his candidly smirking family. "I don't want to hear it," he growled when Saint John took his arm and ushered him back to the room and bed he'd just quitted. A snit was just as impossible to maintain as indignation, however, especially with Saint John's affectionate arm around him, and Dom staring between the brothers, the worse for wear but gloriously alive and wearing that big sloppy smile on his face. String discovered himself beaming just as widely, his heart more full of joy than he ever dared hope for in his whole life.  
  
Saint John perched himself at the foot of the bed, one wide shoulder brushing String's, his expression carrying a touch of excitement over the contentment. "You missed a good one yesterday, brother. Mike and I went after that weapons stash Horn was planning to sell to Muhallah."  
  
"One of Horn's men spilled the location?" the younger Hawke guessed, raising an interested brow.  
  
Dominic hooted and flapped his arms, managing to resemble a beheaded chicken. "Sang like a birdie, baby! And these boys ..." He stabbed a thumb at Saint John and by implication, Rivers. "... made the trip over and hit the base just before dawn their time. Saint John is just getting back."  
  
"Much resistance?" String wanted to know, wincing from a vision of more bullet holes in Airwolf's armored hide.  
  
His brother shook his head. "Jason suppressed word of the hit on Horn's estate, so they didn't have a clue until we started the raid. They brought out some Ack-Ack and a Stinger or two, but nothing Airwolf couldn't handle."  
  
"You better believe that!" Nobody questioned Santini's Lady!  
  
Saint John chuckled and leaned forward to chat with Jo, who was holding Dom's hand tightly, while String took a minute to sit back and watch them all from a mental distance. Saint John -- his brother! -- was back and even more functional than String was. Three months ago Stringfellow Hawke would've traded his own life to see Saint John like this again and counted it a bargain at that. To have Dom back too was almost more than he could believe!  
  
He swallowed hard, happy and yet a little afraid too. In the past, happiness was always harbinger of disaster and loss, and Hawke knew that he was in no condition right now to endure either. But what if it did happen again? What if all of this was only temporary -- some cruel deity's idea of a cosmic joke, this moment the set-up before the devastating punch line was delivered?  
  
Then the joke would be on him, Hawke thought fiercely, because no one is taking my family away from me without a fight! And there in the midst of those he loved best, he even found himself believing it.  
  
*** 


	38. Chapter 38

The outskirts of Van Nuys, California, had grown steadily over the past decade, sprouting housing developments and strip malls with a regularity that alarmed the old-time residents, of which there were many. This particular neighborhood, however, had managed to retain its air of privacy despite the extensive construction. It was tree lined and bordered, the sturdy, mid-range houses having been built in the 1950's during post-war affluence, with community pride serving to prevent neglect from creeping in.  
  
The well-kept, three-bedroom colonial home was no exception. The white painted exterior was trimmed in blue, the lawn neat but unornamented by a garden no one had time to keep up. The second story boasted a sturdy sun deck just off the master bedroom, built nearly twenty years ago and so well constructed as to have needed little save a fresh wood stain to keep it looking like new.  
  
The house was situated near the end of a dead-end road next to a field, and generally reflected the sobriety of its fellows -- a fact which suited the predominantly older, staid populace of this section perfectly. Tonight, however, was an exception. Chinese lanterns were strung along the periphery of both yards, the smoke of insect-attracting candles lending the already sweet smelling air an exotic scent. Music was playing continuously, a fair mix of jazz and soft contemporary designed to add a cheerful ambiance without interrupting the animated conversation of the party-goers.  
  
Even though it was nearly eleven o'clock, the night was so warm that many of the guests opted to remain outdoors, either wandering the grounds or sprawled in lawn chairs by the picnic table to enjoy the refreshing breeze. Others were scattered throughout the house's first floor, their conversation generally leaning to the more spirited. There was plenty of room to spread out -- a large, panelled family room comprised the south side of the building; it had been added some years back and was fitted with a television, stereo, overstuffed sofa and chair, with a small but serviceable bar lining one wall. Kitchen and bathroom were all accessible through the little hall bisecting the house. This opened into a more formal living room near the front door; decorated in country blue, the spotless provincial style sofa and untracked carpet betrayed the lack of use as a rule.  
  
Today, though, the rule was being broken. Jo Santini, dressed becomingly in what women generally referred to as 'the little black dress,' sat on one side of the upholstered sofa, shapely legs crossed at the knee. A plate of lunchmeat sat on the end table beside her, a half-empty ginger ale forgotten in her right hand. "... the only decorating change I made, I might add," she was telling the attractive brunette at her side. She gestured around the room with the soda can, indicating with a grand sweep the riot of flowering vines that bedecked the window. "Now you tell me, Toni, do you think there's too many plants in here?"  
  
Antonia 'Toni' Donatelli, invited expressly at Dominic's request, followed her gesture with bright brown eyes. She tipped her head consideringly, the light reflecting on the silver streaking her dark hair. "I don't think you can have too many plants," she decided, twisting her red painted lips into a moue. "An apartment is so sterile without them, don't you think?"  
  
Jo nodded enthusiastically, her bobbed hair bouncing on her shoulders. "That's what I told Uncle Dom. Honestly, you'd think he lived in a time warp. And String is just as bad. Do you know I mentioned Madonna and he thought I was talking about DaVinci or Michelangelo or something?"  
  
Toni chuckled, her throaty laugh a pleasant melody in the room. At its sound one of the neighbors clustered around the window discussing something about zoning permits, turned to smile in her direction; his wife, a portly matron in her sixties, gave him a poke and he returned to the conversation. "Sounds like that self-styled hermit to me," Toni commented, waving amiably at the matron, who sniffed. "He's cute but a bit behind the times." She looked down, scowling ferociously at a minuscule red spot on her lavender silk pants. "That better not be catsup. This outfit is brand new."  
  
"Cute, eh?" Jo eyed the brunette with consideration, ignoring the part about the catsup. "String?"  
  
Donatelli rubbed her thumb on the red spot; it vanished immediately. "Whew. Only a piece of thread." That accomplished, she turned her scowl on the younger woman. "Don't you even think of trying to match me up with the hermit. For one thing, I'm at least five years older than he is. For another, I darn near kicked his butt the first time we met." She winked, giving Jo a friendly nudge with her elbow. "Besides, I've got my eye on another member of this little family. One with an Italian name, if you catch my drift."  
  
The blonde hair bounced again, Jo's easy smile wide. "I thought Uncle Dom was awfully pleased when you agreed to come tonight. You two have something going yet?"  
  
"'Yet' is the operative word," the other replied. "We might if he can stop disappearing long enough for us to have a first date."  
  
The two giggled then looked up when Mike Rivers and his date wandered into the room. They bypassed the trio by the window, crossing directly to the women on the sofa. "We heard you two laughing all the way in the hall," Mike teased, sliding the fingers of the hand not being possessively gripped by his date into the pocket of his pleated green slacks. "I figured I'd better make sure it wasn't at me."  
  
"You," Jo retorted with great dignity, "are paranoid. ... You're also right!" She dismissed his exclamation of mock affront, and waved a hand in Toni's direction. "Toni Donatelli, meet Mike Rivers and Wendy Kilroy."  
  
Mike disengaged his hand from his date's to take Toni's, giving it a little kiss. "Entirely my pleasure," he said charmingly.  
  
Wendy, a tall, pouty redhead in her early twenties, managed to sip her fourth glass of tequila and roll her heavily made-up eyes at the same time. "'Meet 'cha," she muttered, adjusting her strapless maroon sundress to exhibit another inch of her considerable cleavage.  
  
Jo and Toni exchanged an amused look at the display; Mike, catching the look, grinned boyishly. "I don't give marks for deportment," he said cryptically, causing the seated women to giggle again and Wendy to look puzzled. Loud laughter erupted then from the he kitchen; Mike released Toni's hand with obvious reluctance and turned in that direction. "That cop friend of Dom's -- Lieutenant Grodin, isn't it? He sure sounds like he's having a good time. Couple more bourbons and he'll be dancing on the bar for tips."  
  
"His wife is already mad at him," Wendy commented, swallowing the last few drops in her glass. "She said if he didn't slow down, he was sleeping on the couch tonight with their cocker spaniel."  
  
Mike shook his head. "A partying cop. Who would have thought it?"  
  
"Not me." Jo put the ginger ale on the end table next to the empty plate, and wiggled her foot, allowing her sandal to dangle from one toe. "Especially since that's the same cop that arrested Uncle Dom for murder last year when Aunt Lyla was killed down on San Remo Island. Shame about Sally Ann. Anyway, Uncle Dom said Grodin kind'a helped them out on a few cases, like that one with Cousin Holly, and they got to be friends."  
  
Wendy, who was regarding her empty glass with mournful, slightly blurring eyes, looked up at that. "What kind of 'cases' would an airline get?" she asked curiously. "Don't you guys just give flying lessons and stuff?"  
  
When both Mike and Jo hesitated, it was Toni who unwittingly broke the awkwardness this innocuous question caused. "Not just lessons," she explained with real admiration. "Santini Air specializes in stunt flying for movies and television shows! Did you see The Red Baron's Bust?"  
  
"I don't watch television," the redhead returned haughtily, sliding her arm through Mike's. "We have better things to do with our time than watch some guy's bust. Besides, I thought the Red Baron was a guy. What was he, a cross dresser or something?"  
  
That brought an effective if brief halt to the conversation. Jo restarted it by craning her neck enough to see past the trio crowding the window. "Such a nice turnout to welcome Uncle Dom back," she remarked after clearing her throat. "Between the neighbors, friends and relatives that flew in, we must have had forty or fifty people here."  
  
Rivers smiled tolerantly at Wendy, although it was Jo he addressed. "At least the crowd is starting to thin out. Most of the neighbors have gone home and about a dozen Santini's told me to tell you that they were heading for Cousin Mavis's house. They didn't know where Dominic was but they'll see him in the morning before they fly out."  
  
Jo nodded knowledgeably. "That means Cousin Mavis Venturi bought another keg. Her side of the family goes through more beer...."  
  
"Mike." Wendy pressed against Mike for attention, rubbing against his arm. "I need another drink."  
  
"You know where they are, sweetheart." When Wendy just stared at him, Rivers sighed and forced a smile. "Of course, my dove. What is life without mead?"  
  
"Don't want mead. I want more tequila."  
  
The smile became a grimace. "Right. Ladies...."  
  
Jo and Toni waved enthusiastically as they left, Mike casting a wry look over his shoulder. But he obediently let himself be led back into the den and past a cluster of familiars in animated conversation. The Department of National Security, a.k.a., the Firm, was well represented this night. Easily the most noticeable was Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III, resplendent in a three-piece suit so pristinely white it near dazzled anyone who looked upon it. Despite the mildly swollen broken nose and faint bruises on his face, he looked relaxed and at ease.  
  
Two beautiful women, both trusted agents in Archangel's section, occupied positions on his either side. The petite, oriental Sun Li, in ivory colored sweater and skirt, and cafe-au-lait complected Marella in a white suit, both ranged their superior respectfully. Marella's date -- an ebony skinned more casually dressed male agent named Ali -- carried on conversation a few feet away with Santini Air's former part time mechanic, Everett Logan. Ev's pretty and very pregnant wife, Patti, listened to her husband with a shy smile.  
  
In the process of being towed to the bar, Mike broke his stride long enough to remark over the conversation, "You know, standing there like that you guys look like a church choir."  
  
"Appropriate, don't you agree?" Archangel replied, long inured to comments on his attire of choice. Mike grinned and was hauled off, he and Wendy joining Jason Locke, who was busily mixing himself a drink. The three immediately burst into a spirited argument over the relative merits of vodka over scotch as a stain remover, while Michael returned to the discussion he and his assistants were engaged in with the tall, conservatively dressed Saint John Hawke.  
  
"So after all that happened," Saint John picked up again, broad-planed features tight with suppressed anger, "Newman gets off scot free?" He shook his head, jamming his fists stubbornly into the pockets of his pressed jeans. "That stinks, Archangel. That man is partly responsible for kidnapping Dom and torturing my brother. He should be made to pay for what he did."  
  
Michael shifted his weight until he was leaning more heavily on the silver headed walking stick he was never without. Only a slight bulge around his left calf divulged the fact that he was once again forced to wear a leg brace; his knee had been redamaged during his captivity. He'd been assured however that additional therapy and time would re-heal it fully, and thus accepted the necessity with good grace. "Donald Newman betrayed his position and his country," he began in carefully neutral tones, "but the Committee decided unanimously that no purpose would be served by criminal prosecution."  
  
"Except perhaps a public relations nightmare," Sun Li interjected, a glass of Perrier held delicately between middle and forefingers. "And termination was not an option since the nature of his crime was national rather than foreign."  
  
"'Unanimously' means you, too," Hawke stated flatly to Briggs, "since you're one of them."  
  
Marella regarded Hawke over the rim of her glass with rather more tolerance than she usually accorded his brother. There was none of the disdain with which she dealt with Stringfellow Hawke, but only the friendly reasonableness established with their first meeting. "Mr. Newman didn't exactly get off scot free," she corrected him, crossing one foot over the other. "He's been stripped of his position and Eyes Only clearance. He and his daughter are being relocated to the mid-west in a new identity for security reasons."  
  
"Not much restitution for what he's done," the tall blond pilot snapped, unmollified by the sensible explanations. "He was in with the slimeball that kidnapped both Dom and String ... and you," he added by way of afterthought. He slapped himself on the chest, immediately returning his fist to his pocket. "I spent the last three months thinking Dom was dead. So did String. And all Newman gets is a clean slate."  
  
"A clean slate and his kidnapped daughter back." Marella cocked her head. "Frankly, if it was my daughter that was kidnapped ... or my brother," she added pointedly, "I might have been at least tempted to react the same way Mr. Newman did. Wouldn't you?"  
  
Although he didn't acknowledge the hit verbally, Saint John's expression flickered, the resentment slowly muting into acceptance if not forgiveness. "What about that woman ... Zarkov? I understand she was pulled out of the rubble still alive."  
  
"Barely alive. The room she was in was farthest from the explosion, and fortunately for her the house collapsed in the middle rather than over that wing. She's suffering from multiple broken bones, but the doctors say she'll recover." Michael smiled down at Sun Li, too tall to see anything but a wave of long black hair from his angle. "Would you mind bringing me a glass of Liebfraumilch?" he requested politely. "I'm afraid my leg tends to protest if I use it too much."  
  
She bowed with traditional Chinese courtesy and ambled off toward the bar, where Mike Rivers immediately offered his assistance much to Wendy's annoyance.  
  
Michael smiled faintly at the sight, then dismissed it; Sun Li could easily handle an amorous pilot and his jealous girlfriend. "With the proper ... persuasion, Zarkov was able to tell us a great deal about Horn's operation." He clasped both hands across the walking stick, leaning closer. "She confirmed Donald's assertion that the explosion that nearly killed Dominic and your brother was commissioned by none other than Horn himself. What we didn't know was that he had influential friends in the Government who were instrumental in getting me transferred to Hong Kong." He shook his head, blond mustache twitching with irritation. "Who would have guessed a criminal could wield so much leverage in the Senate. The preliminary investigation alone has already unearthed a political can of worms."  
  
"Why would Horn care about you?" Hawke asked, staring down his long nose at the other man. His slightly nasal tenor implied strongly that he was buying none of this without the careful weighing of each word. "You didn't know where Airwolf was."  
  
Michael adjusted his half-blackened glasses higher, wincing when they settled onto the puffy flesh. "The plastic surgery is scheduled for tomorrow," Marella reminded him, efficient as always.  
  
He smiled at her but addressed Saint John's question. "According to Anastasia Zarkov, Horn's play for Airwolf was carefully orchestrated, each step dependent on the preceding one. The first stage was to leave Hawke ... I mean, Stringfellow, without official sanction or backup. He knew about the friction between Stringfellow and the Firm, and that I was the only one he would deal with in any capacity."  
  
Saint John Hawke's gray eyes narrowed cynically although his tone remained carefully neutral. "Why he thought that is still a mystery."  
  
Archangel blinked, caught unawares by the thinly veiled snub, but stopped Marella's bristling reply by rapidly going on with the narrative. "Once Horn found out the Firm had located you in Cambodia, he took further steps to isolate Stringfellow emotionally, hoping this would make him more vulnerable and ready to deal without question. Dominic was liquidated as dramatically as possible, then the clues were sent that would lead him -- in Airwolf -- into the carefully prepared ambush."  
  
"Except it wasn't Hawke that walked into the trap," a feminine voice drawled from behind. "Horn and Angelica couldn't have known that the rescue pilots were gonna be Jo, Mike and Jason." Caitlin O'Shaunessey strolled into the circle, Ramon Gutierrez at her side. She smiled brightly, her strawberry colored hair haloing her face. "Sorry. Couldn't help overhearing that last part. Y'all know my partner, Ramon, don't you?"  
  
Necessary introductions were made for Michael, Marella, and the returning Sun Li. Michael accepted his drink from the oriental woman with a grateful nod, taking a sip before continuing. "John Horn, yes; Angelica was, shall we say, less culpable this time. I understand you threw a spanner in the works, Hawke, by escaping your cage during the attack and killing Buchard."  
  
"Buchard deserved what he got," Saint John returned unrepentantly. "So did Bishop." He caught the look Marella and Briggs exchanged, gray eyes narrowing even further in an expression so reminiscent of his brother as to visibly substantiate their familial ties. "What is it? Morris is dead, isn't he? Mike said he flamed out over some canyon."  
  
Marella licked wine off her lips, losing a few shades of mauve lipstick in the process. "Company personnel have been all over the wreckage. We're certain Bishop Morris could not have survived a violent crash like that. Unfortunately, we're having a little trouble locating his body."  
  
"Fell into the river, we think," Sun Li said, resuming her place by Archangel. "It will wash up downstream, we are sure. The current is very fast and could carry it a long way before then."  
  
Gutierrez draped an arm around Caitlin's shoulders, the brightly colored material of the Hawaiian luau shirt he'd donned for the occasion rustling against the jade cotton of her knee-length dress. She elbowed him sharply in the ribs and he uttered an "Ooof," and retreated. "Ahh, he'll turn up," the Latino remarked, rubbing his midsection and wiggling his bushy eyebrows at her outrageously. "I saw police photos of what was left of his chopper, an' believe me, the only way he's going to be showing up here again is as one a'them spooks." He fluttered his arms, making a low wailing sound. "You guys don't run a haunted hangar, you got nothin' ta worry about."  
  
Caitlin laughed fondly at her colleague of three months, green eyes twinkling merrily at his antics. "My partner the ghost. Wasn't that a bad TV show somewhere?"  
  
"They are all bad TV shows," Gutierrez said, taking her hand and pressing it melodramatically against his heart. "We will go off and make our own TV shows. How about a hot romance?"  
  
"It's gonna end up a murder mystery," the redhead retorted, snatching back her hand, "if you don't cut it out."  
  
"On that note..." Michael nodded gallantly to the ladies. "... I really need to find the guest of honor and his uncommunicative associate. Do any of you know where they might be?"  
  
"If you mean Hawke ... I mean, String...." Caitlin stopped, frowning at Saint John, who was regarding her with amusement. "I'm never gonna get used ta having two Hawkes around. Maybe we ought'a tag you two."  
  
"Just remember that I'm the original," the bronze-haired pilot returned, easy-going nature restoring itself in short order. "It's String that's the brother-come-lately around here."  
  
"He's probably not gonna like that much," the highway patrolwoman remarked wryly. "Anyway, if yer lookin' for him and Dom, they're huddled in the corner talkin' about lord knows what."  
  
Michael handed Sun Li his glass and straightened. "Which corner?" Caitlin spread her arms in an I-don't-know gesture, and Michael lifted one brow. "Then how do you know that's where they are?"  
  
"'Cause that's where they end up every time we all go to a party ... or a bar ... or a club. It's like dealing with Siamese twins sometimes." With great familiarity, Caitlin lifted Michael's half-empty glass out of Sun Li's hands and took a sip, wrinkling her pert nose humorously. "White wine. I should have known." 


	39. Chapter 39

It would take Michael fifteen minutes to track down the absent duo to the screened-in porch attached to the living room. It was dim out there, although two figures were still plainly visible by the light of the strung Chinese lanterns and the three-quarters moon. Dominic Santini sat on the cushioned lounge chair facing the lawn, his mutilated leg stretched out straight before him, weight unevenly distributed against his stiffened arms. Stringfellow Hawke sat so close by his side, their shoulders brushed with each movement; his posture was slightly huddled, his energy still depleted by the ordeal he'd undergone.  
  
"All I'm trying to tell you, Dom," Hawke was saying in a tired voice, clasping both hands in his lap, "is that I'm sorry I left you behind. I should have never written you off without proof. I didn't even try...."  
  
Santini leaned forward, lifting one hand to his companion's neck, and snagged the collar of Hawke's black sweater, too heavy for the season but chosen to hide the heavy bruising covering much of the young man's body. Dom's annoyed oath was loud enough to startle Hawke into silence, cutting off the stumbling apology abruptly. "Look, kid, for the twentieth and last time, it wasn't your fault! Horn planned it all too well -- well enough to even fool Jo, and she was right there making the decisions!"  
  
"I should have checked," came the stubborn insistence. "For three months you were a prisoner because I didn't even have the decency to find out for sure if you were still alive."  
  
Santini tightened his grip, using it to give the younger man a rough shake. "I'm supposed to expect you to go rooting through coffins now? No, thanks. That time when we were looking for Saint John's remains on that Army base was enough." He shuddered, not breaking the physical contact. "Funny, isn't it? If Horn hadn't kept me in that fancy coffin a'his, I would have died for sure. Doc Sullivan said that as badly as I was burned, the Yaka-something-or-other was the only thing that could have saved me."  
  
"But you wouldn't've been burned at all if I--" Dominic tightened his fingers around Hawke's neck again and Stringfellow faltered, shooting him a glance. "--if Horn hadn't ordered the hit made."  
  
White teeth flashed approval at the amendment. "Good boy. One thing you'd never do is desert your friends ... or this old man. Place the blame where it belongs, kid -- on someone who's dead enough to have paid for his crimes."  
  
"He died too easy," Hawke muttered, blue eyes glittering dangerously in the half-light. "Too fast."  
  
"String." The name was a reproof and a regret. The World War II pilot stared sadly at his young friend, then lifted his right hand and wiggled the melted stubs that had once been fingers. "I wish I could say I didn't feel the same way. I wanted to see him pay, too.... No, I wanted to make him pay myself." He grimaced, the scar tissue on his face puckering. "Horn cost me my hand and foot -- nearly my life. That's not something a man dumps with the morning's garbage." He paused then straightened determinedly, slamming that mutilated hand down onto his thigh. "But I haven't reached the end of my usefulness yet and I'm not gonna let myself dwell on it ... no more'n I can help, anyway. That's your problem, kid, you keep all this locked inside where it eats at you every day."  
  
"If I hadn't let Saint John go," the younger man reminded his friend gently, "he wouldn't have had to spend fifteen years in an Asian prison camp."  
  
Dominic dismissed that with a curt wave although his brown eyes pierced the sapphire ones with the need to be understood. "Saint John is back, String. The Firm found him and that's thanks to your stubbornness making them keep searching." His lined face softened as it had for the past two days every time he either thought of or caught sight of his older ward. He smiled, shaking his head with pleased disbelief. "As often as I say it or see him, it still won't sink in that Saint John is back! I-I give him up for dead fifteen years ago, and he pops up like a grinning jack-in-the-box on some madman's estate in the middle of nowhere!"  
  
Stringfellow Hawke chewed his lip, his eyes dropping as though he were about to confess a heinous crime ... or a vulnerability. "First Saint John comes back," he murmured in a low voice, studying the white bandages on his hands, "then you. It's ... I never thought I'd feel ... like this again."  
  
"You mean happy?" Dominic supplied in an wry voice. He allowed his arm to slide lower, from Hawke's neck to around his shoulders, pulling him close into the one-armed bear hug even an independent and stubborn seventeen year old soldier-to-be had not been able to reject. "You got what you were after, kid -- everything you fought fifteen and more years for. Your brother's back, I'm back, and you still have a shot at flying the Lady on top of it all. Why are you afraid to enjoy it?"  
  
Hawke returned the hug, sliding his right arm around the older man's thin chest, the fears he fought daily filling his averted face. "Don't you see, Dom? It's all too good. Everything is."  
  
There was a silence then Santini chuckled softly and without derision. "Never met a guy who wouldn't accept good news because it was good! Leave it to you."  
  
The answering laugh didn't come. "It means it's going to be taken away, Dom. It always did before. Always."  
  
The two held the hug for another moment then broke apart reluctantly, Santini having to wipe his eyes on his sleeve. "Maybe some day, String," he replied huskily, "but not this one. I figure we got us a couple'a good tomorrows left before you have to start worrying about that, eh? Besides, worrying doesn't get you nothing except an ulcer and a bald head." He snickered and ruffled Hawke's brown-gold hair. "You wanna go two for two?"  
  
"I don't have an ulcer and I'm not going bald," the younger man retorted, finger combing his disordered locks back into place. "If my dad didn't go bald, I'm sure not gonna."  
  
Santini chuckled again and ducked his head, pointing at the patches of scalp showing through his own sparse hair. "See this? My poppa had a full head 'til the day he passed. This is what worryin' over some smart alec kid gets ya."  
  
The reward for this self-deprecating humor was all Santini could have hoped for. Stringfellow Hawke's eyes opened wide at the joke, his lips curling into a grin that shaved years from his appearance and made him resemble some mischievous teenager. "Worry about yourself, chopper jockey!" he retorted with glee. "I--" He stopped and cocked his head toward the doorway. "Is that you, Michael?"  
  
Michael Briggs stepped silently from the thick blue carpet out onto the porch, the walking stick clicking against the lounge chair when he got near. "I see captivity hasn't damaged that extraordinary hearing of yours, Hawke," he greeted them genially. He stopped, standing stock still to stare at the young pilot open-mouthed. "Now that's something I never thought I'd live long enough to see."  
  
"See what?" Hawke demanded, glancing nervously over his shoulder at the gloomily lit lawn.  
  
One blue eye twinkled roguishly from behind the thick glasses. "You smiling. I thought I was in the wrong home for a moment." Santini guffawed, Hawke lifting one shoulder in an embarrassed little shrug. Briggs took one last step and sank down onto the edge of the second chair on the porch, turning it to face the two pilots. "Seriously, Hawke, I think you should do it more often. The James Dean look never suited you somehow."  
  
"But I don't look like James Dean," Hawke began doubtfully, only to be shushed by Dominic's amiable swat.  
  
"I'll explain it to ya later," the older pilot promised with a wink. "Right now I want to hear about that Committee meeting this afternoon. What are they going to do with Newman?"  
  
Briefly, Archangel repeated what he'd told Saint John Hawke a few minutes earlier. "Even I couldn't quite find it in me to send him to prison, and it would have broken Amy's heart."  
  
Dominic nodded once. "She's a good kid, that Amy. Three months in a cell and she handles an armed escape like a real trooper. Too bad about her taste."  
  
String's amused gaze flicked from one man to the other. The hard glint was gone from his eyes now, gladness making them glow incandescent in the uncertain light. "Her taste?" he prodded, supporting his still sore ribs with one arm.  
  
Dom jerked a thumb at Michael, who had sensed what was coming and was studying the nearest lantern on the lawn. "It seems Mr. Clean here is big with the pre-adolescent set. Amy Newman decided white bread beats rye any day."  
  
"It's my way with the ladies," Archangel retorted, buffing his nails on his spotless lapel. "A little charm goes a long way. Perhaps someday you'll decide to try it for yourself."  
  
"Hoo-ha," the older man returned deadpan. "At least dating Toni won't get me arrested."  
  
Stringfellow continued to watch them, their amiable and unceasing arguing provoking a short laugh. "After listening to you two for a while, I'm surprised Horn didn't surrender a long time before we got there."  
  
Michael scratched his sandy head, and the expression he turned on Stringfellow Hawke was very serious. "Speaking of which.... Hawke, I ... I want to tell you how much I abhorred leading you to believe Dominic was an impostor. I realize you were in a vulnerable position and...."  
  
Hawke dropped his eyes to the floor, looking up again only when Santini swatted him on the arm. "Go on," the older man urged him sharply.  
  
The younger Hawke drew a deep breath. "You saved Dom's life when I couldn't. That's all that matters now, Michael."  
  
"Is it?" The agent raised one blond brow, leaning forward to cross his hands across his walking stick in a favorite posture. "We may work together again, Hawke. I need to know if any of this is going to make a difference the next time I ask you to take my word on something."  
  
An uncomfortable silence fell while the two studied each other, blue eye meeting blue, seeking the remains of the damaged trust they'd once shared. Finally, Hawke smiled. "What makes you think I ever took your word on anything before?" It was his tone far more than the flippant words that said everything was all right between them again.  
  
It was enough. Briggs relaxed, the tense sobriety dropping away. "I suppose that's nothing I'm not used to from him."  
  
'Him,' a.k.a., Dominic Santini, harr-de-harred grumpily. "Dubious humor aside, what I really want to know is, what's gonna happen to the Lady? String can't keep her anymore, and the missions Saint John spent the last two days telling me about were all coordinated by that Newman guy. Do the generals get Airwolf after all?"  
  
"That's basically what we want to know," Saint John Hawke interjected from the doorway. He stepped out onto the wide porch, responding irresistibly to his brother's welcoming smile with a grin of his own. He moved to a position behind Dominic, to be followed out by Jason Locke, Jo Santini, Caitlin O'Shaunessey and Mike Rivers, the latter of whom bore a tray laden with several glasses and a chilled bottle.  
  
"We decided to have a little private celebration before the party broke up," Jo explained, taking the tray from Mike and offering glasses around. "It was Jason's idea."  
  
The black man spread both hands modestly. "I figured we deserved it. Breaking up Horn's operation and putting a crimp in Muhallah's plans is a good day's work."  
  
"We may actually have something else to celebrate," Michael said, accepting a glass and balancing it on his knee. "I had a long talk with Zeus just before I left Knightsbridge. We've come to the mutual conclusion that announcing to the White House that the Firm has regained control of Airwolf might boost our prestige somewhat in the eyes of our sister organizations, but will accomplish little beyond that."  
  
"Ahhh, the public relations game stinks," Dominic said disgustedly, taking his own glass from Jo and passing another to Stringfellow.  
  
Michael tipped his head in acknowledgement. "For once, you, Zeus and I are all in agreement. The military will snap at the chance to appropriate Airwolf from the Firm's control -- we'll probably never even see her again much less get to use her."  
  
"If she's ever officially back in Company hands," Mike Rivers translated. He braced the bottle under his arm and worked the cork loose with his thumb; it made a loud 'POP' and shot across the room, caroming off the ceiling and missing Archangel by an inch. "At least my aim's getting better," he grinned unrepentantly.  
  
With a long-suffering sigh, Briggs went on, "Zeus agrees that the Firm's better interests will be served by maintaining the status quo. So far as anyone but Zeus, a few other Committee members, and this team is concerned, Airwolf is still in the hands of the 'band of renegades' Mr. Locke has been dealing with for the past three months."  
  
"'Band of renegades,'" Mike murmured, pouring champagne for Jo then working his way around the circle. "I think I like it. Sounds a bit ... oh, piratical, don't you think?"  
  
"I don't exactly feel like Errol Flynn at the moment," Jason retorted, stroking his mustache. "What's this going to do to my career?"  
  
"I doubt we're going to get a retirement pension out of this, either," Jo muttered to Caitlin as an aside.  
  
The redhead suffered her own glass to be filled, sniffing the fine wine appreciatively. "Don't look at me," she drawled. "The California Highway Patrol has a real good pension plan. And medical benefits, too. Lawd knows we need 'em."  
  
Michael cleared his throat loudly for attention. "Be that as it may, with Apollo 'retired' and his department closed down, I've re-assumed the responsibility of liaison for this team with the rest of the Committee. Mr. Locke, as of tomorrow morning when your transfer goes into effect, you officially become Head of Field Operations for my section."  
  
Locke stared slack jawed. "Me?" he squeaked, voice a full octave above his usual resonant baritone. The congratulations were many and sincere from the others, and Jason accepted them all with a dazed little smile. "I ... don't know what to say."  
  
"Just say you'll take the job," Saint John said from his position behind Dominic's shoulder. "Promotions don't come often in your business."  
  
"We'll maintain the cover with Santini Air," Michael added to Dominic, who was scowling ferociously as he thought the matter over. "That means we'll be pumping a little money in to expand your company, of course, to cover the extra employees."  
  
That provoked an immediate and negative response. Dominic Santini drew himself up straight, mouth drawn into a tight, stubborn line. "No one is buying into my business," he snapped. "Santini Air's been mine and mine alone for the past thirty-five years, and that ain't gonna change."  
  
"I was only trying to help," Michael protested, raising one hand placatingly.  
  
Only partially mollified, Dom shook his head. "Don't need it anyway. Jo gave me a run down on the books this morning. She's done a pretty good job keeping the company going while I was gone."  
  
The blonde woman dimpled at the compliment. "I had a good teacher, Uncle Dom."  
  
"She's going to keep on doing the administration and accounting," Santini went on to the agent, "an' I've got a contact that'll bring us in a few movie contracts in the next month or so. When they start to roll, and with the charters and lessons we pull every week, I'll have enough work to keep String, Saint John, and even Rivers over there busy. Especially since it doesn't look like I'm going to be doing much flying for a while," he added with a sad glance at his empty pantsleg.  
  
Finished pouring, Mike took a spot with his back to the screen, between Michael and Stringfellow Hawke. "This, my friends, is the good stuff. Perrier Joie straight from the Champagne valley in France."  
  
There were appropriate ooohs and ahhhhs at the announcement. String and Michael got to their feet, Saint John dropping a hand onto Dominic's shoulder, even as Locke raised his glass high. "I propose a toast," the black man said. "To the New Airwolf team!"  
  
"TO THE NEW AIRWOLF TEAM!" The refrain was enthusiastic and unanimous. Everyone took a sip, turning to Stringfellow Hawke when he took a single step forward.  
  
"If this is going to work," he began seriously, "there's just one thing I want to make clear." He waited, allowing the tense silence to grow for several seconds before spinning on Mike Rivers. "If you," he began, poking the other man in the chest, "ever call me 'Baby Brother' again, even a Haversham screen isn't going to stop me from punching you right in the nose."  
  
"Don't mention noses," Michael muttered, touching his own swollen appendage ruefully.  
  
Taken aback and actually embarrassed, Rivers gawked for several seconds, a slow flush working its way up his neck. Then the burgeoning twinkle in Hawke's eye ignited one in his own. He adopted a cocky hand-on-hip pose. "Can I call you Junior?" he asked, meeting Saint John's I-told-you-so look with mock innocence.  
  
"How about Sir?" Stringfellow volleyed firmly.  
  
It was Jo who started to giggle, then Caitlin and Dominic. Before long the whole room was laughing hard enough to bring tears to their eyes. "How about we wait and see what works?" Mike suggested when he could speak again, and the future implied in that statement was enough for them all.  
  
***  
  
finis  
  
*** 


End file.
